Gee-Ardia!

Dear readers, my apologies for having abandoned you for so long. I was writing a book! And I had an intestinal parasite!

Whilst swimming in a crystal clear and blue lake sometime this summer, I must have breast-stroked gleefully, with mouth agape, right through a patch of water recently vacated by an incontinent beaver.

Or, an alternate vision: perhaps dirty-fingered Leonard, the fruit and veggie stocker at the local Stop 'N' Shop, touching the produce with doody-flavored hands? Touching, touching, and dreaming of his recent mountain hike during which he gurgled down fresh and clear mountain stream water sans iodine?

One of these visions must be true. How do we know, dear reader? Oh, because after many many days of miserable gut-wrenching agony, nausea, heartburn, and what are commonly known as "the skwertz," I finally decided to seek the advice of a doctor.

At first I had diagnosed myself, because I am a certified WEB MD. Not only did I have gluten intolerance, fructose malabsorption, lactose intolerance, and yeast intolerance, I also had multiple sclerosis. Now, I know that MS has nothing to go with GI troubles, but by God, that didn't stop me from finding a tenuous yet scientifically valid connection.

The pains and misery grew worse. Such were they that, upon receiving a catalog that features plaques and mugs with your grandkids' photos emblazoned on 'em, I almost ordered a miniature gravestone that one can place in the veggie beds. The thing was inscribed with a poem that read something like:

God saw that you were tired, a cure could not be found.
So He closed your weary eyelids, and we put you in the ground.

As I read those words I shivered with regret, for my children would trip over the little gravestone as they crossed through the garden, and would probably miss me as they did so.

Every time I passed a neighbor on the street I groaned and clutched at my midsection and went on about the ruination of my health. I don't know why I did this, except that any other topic of discussion was of little interest to me because I was about to throw up.

To my great misfortune and shame, the doctor asked me for a "stool sample." Three times. Delivering a stool sample is neither enjoyable nor fun. The nurse suggests that you use "something clean" to poo upon. One time, I decided to use aluminum foil. I suppose Saran Wrap would be been a poorer choice, but other than that I could hardly have chosen a more wretched and crinkly medium for my canvas. Things stick to tin foil. It's not like rolling something off a Silpat (TM).

Another time, I thought I would hit my own "feeling lucky" button and go right into the cup! It was daring. I dared, and I won.

Upon depositing the poo in whatever the chosen receptacle, one has to scoop out several bits with a mini shovel and scoop them into smaller vessels, which all had to be shimmied about a bit to mix the foul ingredients. The containers have "do not eat" yucky faces on them just in case you are tempted. Then, one has to keep "some" but not "all" of the poop in a refrigerated condition. So that basically means you are hiding bits of poop around the house and in the back of the fridge, in dark baggies and containers, after trying without success to remove it from the tin foil, or your shoes.

The frightful part is that on the sides of each container there are blank spaces for the scientists to write. They have to evaluate the consistency of each specimen, check for bad stuff in each, write a little poem about each chunk of poo-poo, and say anonymous stuff about it that they wouldn't dream of saying to the face of the person who produced it. I think one is judged and rated on the manner of delivery and if the container is Tiffany, Wedgewood, or otherwise. I got low marks for the black plastic and that hurt me, because we are poor.

This must the worst job in forever, but I'm sure there is a lot of laughter and ribald talk in the lab, and they pass the hours tossing specimens back and forth like those Seattle fish market guys did and made famous. "Go long!" they shout, and "Hey, not in my sandwich!" and fun, silly things like that.

When I dropped off one specimen, however, the people in the lab looked very bitter. It was hard to tell, because they all wore masks, but I don't think they were smiling terribly fiercely, or at all. I tried some rude "poo poo" talk and tested out some stage patter that my five-year-old is perfecting, but they stared at me with cold, lifeless eyes. I rather wished that I used a Lilly Pulitzer patterned coverlet for my sample, because their judgmental attitudes were giving me the pip.

The end of all this is that I was found to have GIARDIA, aka Beaver Fever. The people in the lab found it! Maybe that brought them some joy, to find something of conversational interest.

Then I had to take a bunch of antibiotics, including one called FLAGYL. Flagyl came with a horrific list of side effect warnings that included things like: "You will tear your eyeballs out and eat your own brains," and "You will vomit so prodigiously that your life will end prematurely." I was so scared to take Flagyl, especially because I could not have one wee drop of alcohol during the time I was on it. I wasn't even to use shaving lotion! I don't use shaving lotion, but I was scared I might rub up against some, or eat a bourbon-filled bon-bon that I found lying on the street. If you drink any booze while on Flagyl, you will get hot flashes, obscene cramps, and the vomiting willy-wags.

Flagyl worked. It finally did the trick, and the whole horrible thing ended. Sometimes I still have lactose intolerance, but that's it. I have one remaining fear. That is that the doctor will want "proof" that the parasite was vanquished. He will want another sample, and I will need to find a receptacle that hasn't been tried before so I can be innovative, new, and different! It is hard to always reinvent oneself. I may choose something bold, and very tiny, so that I get Olympic style points for verve and finesse. My sample shall be bold. My sample shall be trendy, and most delightfully free of Giardia.

Window Dressings: Nightmare animals

These mannequins are desperately evil and bad. Not only did they probably lose their original heads in some obscene accident, but their heads were REPLACED BY ANIMAL HEADS. And the animals in question want to have sexual relations with you. Against your will, in a field filled with rotting turnips and the burnt-out husks of buildings bombed in the Great Cataclysm of 2011. Many rude braying noises will fill the air and...god, this is a horrible vision. I won't be shopping here!

Source: Necessary Objects, SoHo

Window Dressings: Lake Placid Style

My new theme o' the month, the Delicate Art of Consumer Seduction, will now be called Window Dressings. Here is a wonderful example from a recent trip to Lake Placid.



I [Heart] My Nana. But I have no pants and no discernible sexual organs. What is the message here? I am not sure that references to a loving grandmother and "no pants" should appear within the same image. What happened to the child's nether regions?

I'm a Cutie Patootie is clearly not wearing any pants either, and I would suggest that the child also lacks underwear. This is a significant and horrifying problem. Shame on you, Grandpappy!



Here are their cousins, clothed. If I go to the Adirondacks, they will kill me with their laser eyes and barely-muzzled slavering beasts. See the little boy's hand? It is reaching out to I [Heart] My Nana to snatch her pants clean off and feed them to Its Master. Strange pagan symbols behind them control their every move.

The Delicate Art of Consumer Seduction

This will be the first in an exclusive Party Pony series documenting the delicate art of consumer seduction--the most compelling and inviting window dressings, mascots, advertisements, and taglines designed to please and tempt the consumer.

In the Christmas category, we have these examples:

Longing for some new negligee to tempt the man in your life? Don't look further than Main Street Hosiery on Mamaroneck Avenue. Not to be outdone by Bergdorf's in the city, Main Street Hosiery spent weeks arranging their jolly display of a 10-foot tall humanoid female about to whip off her sexy black robe, and a small, angry gnome who is clearly ready to nip under her nighty or flash us--either way, it will be perverted and wrong.



Also a jolly holiday tradition at Main Street Hosiery, Griselda the mannequin fondles her pink terrycloth robe while contemplating the red panties. Which shall it be tonight, which shall it be? But wait! The flannel suit on the wall behind her is FOR SALE. Oh, rapture!


Who among you knew that Smurf is called, in other tongues, Pitufo, Schlumpf, and even SCHTROUMPF? Isn't that how two Smurfs make another Smurf? Look, the Schtroumpf are Schtroumpfing again! Look closer and you will see that one of them is dressed up as a crab, while another one appears to be a carrot. Their eyes are filled with a mad light. No wonder these toys are so perennially popular!


This mascot for Veloce Pizzeria in NYC makes me regret every diet I have ever been on. His whole aspect says EAT. In fact, it says EAT ME. I AM GOING TO PUNCH YOUR LIGHTS OUT. When eating items with pepperoni on them, do we need an angry, snouted hog-thing staring at us in a menacing way? Yes, we do! Note the teeth, suitable for edging pie crusts.

All Doped Up and Can't Even Drive My Big Rig

We all know about the common side effects of SSRIs and their ilk: nausea, dizziness, fecal urgency, murder, and other mildly aggravating symptoms that are well worth the relief and well-being--the very same, mind you, that one might also get from a sugar pill stamped with the words "Eat me and be happy! I am a magic Jesus pill! I heal your fucking woes you silly depressed so and so!" Such type would be very small and you are probably too depressed to find your glasses, and even if you did you'd be worrying about the grammatical accuracy of the statements, so never mind.

But when was the last time you called in a complaint about side effects to the drug company that peddled you its latest panacea? Think about it: The poor devils who are writhing on the floor thinking their genitals are being nipped by aphids aren't exactly in the position to dial a 1-800 number and rattle off a list of complaints. Nor is that guy in the backhoe loader who just crawled into the shovel bucket and started whimpering for his momma. He'll go home and have a beer and think it was just a bad day and he will never call that troubling side effect in, will he?

This is why I have determined that a whole host of unreported side effects are going...unreported. In a journalistic foray into truthiness, I feasted on a whole bunch of these mood-alerting Scooby Snacks during one particularly gloomy and rainy long weekend, when even painting my toenails and singing lighthearted songs about daffodils and bunnies failed to lift my spirits.

Here was my menu--a delectable array of the finest that Big Pharma has to offer us poor, weary souls.


The Results of My Very Scientific Experiment:

Effexor: Stabbing electrical pains in the medulla oblongata, followed by a desire to outrun one's demons via fast and reckless highway travel. Occasional belief that one is a squirrel, and must mate with one's kind. Visions of angels coming down from the Heavens and prodding one with fondue forks, coupled with the maniacal laughter of unseen children. Vivid sense that the scent of poo is in the air. Realization that it is one's own poo.

Lexapro: Imbued with a sense that one is a salmon, and one must swim upstream with all deliberation. Attempts to do so in the kitchen sink are met with futility. A wish to eat poisonous plants is followed by a trip to Burger King, where the alarmed kitchen staff find a surprise, naked visitor at the burger station, trying to construct a warrior helmet made entirely of beef patties. The trip home results in vomiting and hearing a choir singing "These Boots Are Made for Walking."

Wellbutrin: Oh, I'm not sure one can talk about this drug. One did very bad things while on it, including a romp through a nearby shopping mall where one tore apart a candy store and ran about shrieking "I am the King Eel! I will bite your duodenum!" However, feelings of anxiety were greatly relieved and one had the best sleep in decades.

Prozac: Feeling great! So not depressed anymore! Except for that weird deadening of all erogenous zones, including the earlobes and buttocks. The feeling got so acute that one started slathering oneself with butter, whipped cream, and other foodstuffs in an effort to feel something, anything! Tried stabbing at self with a butter knife. Wound up lying on a platter with a pomander in one's mouth. A wonderful drug.

Zoloft: Became convinced that this all was just a dream, a lovely dream. Thought the world was an apple or a pomegranate, and one could eat it in one bite. Imagined that one had invented the whole world and all its history in a kindergarten daydream. Finally recognized that one was in Hell, and was attacked by fire, burning lakes, brimstone, hornets, and little fellows with pitchforks. Met with Satan and think he is overrated. Still possibly in Hell, although it is hard to tell, and my gym instructor will not divulge where she learned her craft.

Cymbalta: Depression hurts. Damn it, it even hurts one's damn dog, and other pets. Decided that they would all be better off dead, without one's gloomy presence. Murdered animals with pitchforks and staves in a large ceremony that included a giant Cookie Puss ice cream cake from Carvel as a celebratory after-hours feast. Mmm. Cookie Puss, you are so good. You are one's overlord.

Pristiq: Felt like a wind-up doll that some other, bigger force was controlling. It made one do awful little jigs and pick up the garbage, and perform unnatural acts. Simply frightful.

Xanax: Not an SSRI, but a benzodiazepine. However, after all the other pills and goofballs, needed something to come down and chill-ax. Also needed steely calm to battle the laser-eyed moon marmots, who now outnumber us and will soon overtake the capital.

Poo-Splosion!

Okay, so you are probably thinking that we should have called in an expert after yesterday's unfortunate discovery of fecal matter on the lawn. No, we did not. "Maybe it's a weird aberration!" we thought. Surly Miguel, the guy who cuts lawns in the neighborhood, had come by to give his assessment.

"Plug up that hole!" said Surly Miguel. Maybe a well-placed flowerpot atop the site of the extrusion would serve to prettify the area and prevent further blowouts! Anyway, we mixed a drink and ignored it, in the manner of the ostrich. Maybe the problem would just go away and prevent us from spending multibajillions of dollars to fix it.

So this morning I returned from the gym, where I was attempting to cut off further panic attacks at their source. I was feeling better, quite better! "I might turn the corner on this thing," I thought. Then I came up the driveway and saw It. The hole had belched forth a wide swath of effluvium, vastly trumping yesterday's horrors. The turds were not cute, nor were they small. I began to hyperventilate.

Several neighborhood boys were playing soccer on our lawn, as is the accepted way on our street where no private property is sacred. They seemed innocent and playful.

"Dudes!" I yelled. "Did you not see the big pile of poop?"

One of the boys said: "Yeah, we saw that. Pretty gross. I think the soccer ball went through it."

"Maybe, just maybe," I said, while trying to suck down some air, "you should take your game elsewhere."

"Yah, disgusting!" yelled the boys.

"I'm going to have a panic attack," I said to the boys, who are all about 12 years old. "Help! Help! What should I do with this?"

One of the boys thought most carefully, and then said: "I would get a shovel and scoop it all up and put it in a bag."

"Thank you," I said, most gratefully. Donning rubber gloves, I followed his instructions to the letter. Before I did so, however, I went next door to the neighbor to see if he knew a respectable type of Roto-Rooter fellow.

"I don't know who to call!" he said, clearly horrified. "But maybe you could call the police?"

I found the yellow pages, which I have never used for any reason. Right on the back was a big ad for the Drain Doctor, which advertised 24/7 emergency service. "I have raw sewage on my lawn," I told the Drain Doctor. "I think this qualifies as an emergency?"

While waiting for the Drain Doctor, my middle son ran to me in a fright. "Mommy, there's a big dead bird under the swing!"

I meant to give the bird a decent burial, but he got tossed into the Poo-Sack with everything else.

And then one of the neighborhood boys came back. "Hey, I forgot to tell you that there's a poop in the middle of the lawn, too." It had been stepped on by the soccer players and smeared through the grass.

"How did that get there?!"

"Must of gotten tossed through the air through that pipe. I'll bet it flew like a bird!"

I went and found the poop, which was clearly of animal origin. This poop was the kicker, for it was so foul that I started dry-heaving and stumbling over the grass. I came within a hairsbreadth of vomiting. Father's day was not going well! I had meant to give my husband a Father's day gift, but since he was off playing sport, his absence during this event was indeed the best gift I could have given him.

Various other neighbors came by. One of them poked a stick down into the hole, while tromping through the muck and doody and stompling at it with his shoes. My two-year-old ran up with a trowel, hoping to help, and then saw the puddle of doom which had been produced when we "tested" the toilet by flushing it. "Puddle!" he yelled, and jumped into it with both feet.

Then the Drain Doctor guy came. He saved our lives and charged us a good price. The day ended better than it had begun. Except for the dead bird--it's still dead.

Up From the Ground Come A-Bubbling...Turds?

I've had a pretty rough week that included panic attacks so severe that I had to put down the phone during a conference call, lie down on the bathroom floor, and breathe into a paper bag. So yesterday, when my husband came to me and said he had "something to show me," I became strangely and erroneously excited. Perhaps what he intended to show me was something nice, like a bunny rabbit in the garden wearing a circlet of daisies around its head, or a bag of diamonds.

It was not something nice.

Since we have moved into our 1890 Victorian house, we have discovered all manner of interesting goodies left behind by the former owners. Our idealistic sensibilities have been damaged by a serious dearth of cash and gold doubloons, treasures which we assumed would simply drop out of the ceiling tiles at surprising moments, or cascade into our arms when we peeled back the hideous wallpaper. My pal in Mahopac is always finding cool stuff on his property, like Native American artifacts and gravestones. We find things like human faeces.

Since that 2008 post, we have unearthed the following:
1. A tarnished spoon
2. Two very old bottles buried in the garden (pretty cool, actually, but yet another painful reminder of all the historic stuff that the former owners destroyed and mangled)
3. A few tattered paperdolls in a crawlspace under the stairs
4. 6 undamaged--and empty--cardboard toothpaste boxes from the 1970s (I sure forgot what the old Crest branding used to look like, and boy was I glad to see it again)
5. A can of "genuine Florida sunshine" in the rafters of the basement (It fell out on my head while I was doing laundry and almost gave me a melanoma)
6. Two perfectly pristine turds, and their accompanying toilet paper, resting near a small pipehole in the front yard

Ah, this last find was the most startling, I must say! For months, we had wondered just why this pipe existed. It lies flush with the ground in the grass next to our walkway, and the cap on it has a small hole in the center about two inches in diameter. Sometimes the boys poke sticks into it, and we can see water glimmering below. I had a theory at one point that it once housed a flagpole. Until yesterday, it was an interesting little mystery.

While walking past it, our nanny heard an ominous gurgling and bubbling sound, concurrent with shower, dishwasher, and toilet usage within the house. Later, she discovered that "something" had been tossed up with some force from the pipe's aperture. My husband was beckoned, and bent over to view just what it was. "Those are...turds," he said, with some evident lack of pleasure. A few shiny flies buzzed up and confirmed the diagnosis. Then he glanced down at his sandals. The sidewalk next to the pipe, where he was standing, was puddled with what appeared to be "water" but clearly wasn't just "water."

My middle child was fingered as the former owner of the offending objects, given away by his size and for the fact that it was he who sat upon the pot before the earth began gurgling and released its foul offering. He denied it, of course: "My little brother has the smallest poops in the house because HE is the smallest! So those are his turds." His argument had a fatal flaw, as the youngest and the potty have not yet become acquainted.

We noted with some relief that the aperture in the pipe, being the small size that it is, would prevent some of the potential "larger items" from escape. But then my husband shook his head with a sad and portentous expression. "Whatever force shot those turds up outta that hole, it's pretty powerful. I think almost anything might get pushed right through. Boom!"

It could become our own Old Faithful, finally making us rich through tourism dollars. I hope that the wee, sweet bunny rabbit is not in the area when she blows again.