In spite of the rather large number of comments I received on my posts about Pure Med Spa, not one of the commenters responded to my request to interview them for an article I am doing on the company. I am posting this in an effort to find people who were harmed by Pure Med Spa, employees who would like to tell their story, or even those who had a great experience. If you would like to speak to me, please comment on this post and I will contact you. If you would like to remain anonymous, that request will be honored.
I dreamed I gave birth to a kitten. Giving birth to the kitten was normal. It was black and white. As it tried to nurse I realized that it was not the human I had been expecting. I remembered registering for baby things on Amazon. I realized I would have to tell everyone that I did not need those things because I did not have a baby, I had a cat. I knew why the birth had happened months before it should have, because the kitten’s gestational period was shorter than a baby’s. I missed the baby that was not human. I loved the kitten but was so sad it was not a human with arms and legs.
Damn weird dream.
All the claims people make of faith, yet when a “face” appears in a cushion (see article here), thousands flock to see their proof. If they are so faithful, why do they need to run get such “evidence”? This is only one problem in many with belief systems that rely on nothing in order to sustain themeselves. I have little doubt the “faithful” who want to see the face would say it is because they just want to see Him. I don’t buy it. They want something to back up their efforts, some proof that their beliefs are not in vain.
Today the Pope said condoms won’t stop the spread of AIDS in Africa. I’m not surprised. Maybe the Africans can pray the disease away.
I do not like other people’s hairs. I do not like them in my food. I do not like them in the shower or on a toilet seat or in a sink or touching me. I know this is slightly ridiculous. There is just something about another’s hairs curving or curling and lying there in a sauce or remaining, reminding me of another’s skin cells lining the space. The worst are hairs on public toilets. They leave little doubt from whence they came. I will not sit on them. If the seat is damp enough they cannot be removed by breath, I do not sit there.
I do not mind Milla’s hairs or Dan’s hairs or even pet hairs really. I actually enjoy running my hands and fingers through those hairs. It is the stranger hair or the person less than close to me hair that really creeps me out. I would just prefer not to touch it or have it in the shower with me, that’s all.
I know. I’m weird. I get it.
I stand in front of the mirror. My shape is only slightly changing. I am a third of the way through and I look nearly as I did when there was no alien. No one would notice except me and Dan, and Dan only when he touches me or sees me without clothes. My breasts are larger. They no longer fill my bra. So weird, an alien invading my body.
Things are not clean. Even though soap and water have been applied, objects remain clogged with grease and protein, bacteria and mire.
Grease beads on a pan, coats a plate, overlaying knives and spoons. Grease does not like soap. Add soap and grease goes away, but with too little soap or soaks in water full of oiliness the grease hovers and swims. Grease prefers cold water to warm. The hotter the water, the less likely grease will remain.
Starch is another skin. It adheres carefully and craftily, defying efforts at its removal. It cannot be seen in the water. Water must be removed or scrubs must be soapy and vigilant in order to ensure it moves on to pipes. Left to its own devices, it curls and dries, affixed with tenacity.
The backs of implements used to eat and to prepare sustenance (plates and bowls, pans, glasses and cups) all need cleansing on their backs and under their bottoms. Material hides there, ignored by those who do not consider its existence.
Toilets with urine that is not flushed begin to smell acrid and pungent.
If a toothbrush is electric and removed from the mouth before it ceases rotation, it leaves small bits of bacteria and spit on all surfaces in its vicinity. Others who come into contact with these substances may share.
Why remove items from the floor when it is more simple to walk across them than to place them elsewhere?
Used toilet tissue does not replace itself.
Apathy, like a virus worming its way through cells. It gets in and makes nothing appealing. It wins. It is floating, moving along the surface. It no longer feels the urge to push. It no longer cares. Some would call it depression, but there is no pain in it. Depression connotes pain. Depression is drowning while apathy floats. Apathy is flatter, something not angry. Depression has anger and vile, venom and spit. Apathy is a pool of water on oil; it sits there, not even holding itself, simply roosting, waiting for nothing.
A pathos. Pathos with an added vowel that takes it away. Add the a, the pathos leaves.
Somewhere in my belly if I turn towards certain things I notice a place where apathy has not moved in. It could, given the right set of circumstances. There are a handful of things that still know pathos, that still know rage, that still know love. Give them time and the a will turn them around, help them float.
I gave a hungry man an apple yesterday and I keep thinking about it. I don’t want to trivialize it, but I wanted to write about him. I keep seeing him at the other end of the subway car gnawing the apple as if his life depended on it. And maybe it did. I thought of him this morning in my insomniac hours. I thought about the homeless families I read about in the New York Times and I wanted to write and comment about what homelessness is, but that seems so boring and unlikely to change anything. People read me, but no one is going to read what I have to say about homelessness and change anything. I don’t know what would remove the image of that man from my brain. I don’t know that I should remove that image. I just keep thinking about it. So many times I have sat on the subway car and a person comes on and says, Excuse me, Ladies and Gentlemen, apologizes, and then proceeds with their spiel. So many times I have been slightly annoyed by the interruption, yet felt guilty at the same time. I simultaneously realize how close to precarious is my own financial situation, yet I acknowledge that we are nowhere near completely homeless and there are people in our lives who would ensure true homelessness is a most unlikely possibility. I know also how pitiful and useless would be the change in my pocket. And honestly, I am slightly resentful at being asked even though it isn’t fair to feel this way. So I do nothing. But there have been times when I have had food, times before moving to New York, when I would give food to people asking for it. This time I had an apple, he asked for food, why not? He told his sad story and I handed him my apple, then thought nothing more of it until I looked up minutes later to see him devouring that apple like he hadn’t eaten in days. It was ginormous and red and beautifully ripe, a sort of dream apple. It makes me weep to think of his hunger, swallowing the pieces so quickly he could not have had time to enjoy much of its fragrant sweetness. It makes me wonder what would happen if I ever gave into the urge I have had in the past to ask the person to sit down and talk to me. Sometimes I am afraid because the person seems to be mentally ill. I don’t want to be screamed at. Other times I just don’t do it. I’ve never done it. But the urge has been there over and over. I have wanted to stop my car (back when I had and drove a car) and ask the person holding the sign What happened? How did you get here? But I haven’t done it. I wonder if I ever will.
I read a story on the BBC website today. The story is repeated in its entirety below. What struck me after reading the story was the BBC’s willingness to relate the torture described by Mr. Binyam Mohamed, a man held by the US for just under 7 years and released last February, all charges against him dropped. US mainstream media is completely unwilling to tell it like it is, preferring instead to describe the fringes, keeping the hard truth from reaching our eyes. Chickens.
Americans need to read and see what torture means. The word torture isn’t horrific anymore. We hear a bit about waterboarding, or see the most sanitized photos from Abu Ghraib, but unless we’re looking for it, we’re not hearing what our country did to people. It’s appalling.
Last week I read an article on Mr. Marri, the man who has been held without charges or trial for years. It was an online article, which meant anyone could comment. Some guy commented that “torture works.” Really? How is that? Does that mean that if I hold a lighter to your balls while you are tied to a fence in neither a sitting or standing position and ask you whether you raped my mother you will continue to deny it, even if I set your balls on fire? Is that evidence of torture’s “success”?
Read this BBC story and judge for yourself. Ask whether you could hold out under such conditions. Ask whether you would say anything to get someone to stop drowning you, or cutting you, or leaving you hanging by chains in the dark with music so loud you cannot hear. Then tell me whether torture works.
The link to this story can be found here.
Demands for MI5 ‘torture’ inquiry
Mr Mohamed arrived back at RAF Northolt in London in February
MPs have demanded a judicial inquiry into a Guantanamo Bay prisoner’s claims that MI5 was complicit in his torture.
In a Mail on Sunday interview, UK resident Binyam Mohamed claims MI5 fed his US captors questions which led him to make a false confession.
His allegations are being investigated by the government, but the Foreign Office said it did not condone torture.
Shadow justice secretary Dominic Grieve said the “extremely serious” claims should also be referred to the police.
Mr Mohamed told the paper he was held in continual darkness for weeks on end in a prison in Kabul, Afghanistan.
He has claimed that while in US custody in 2002, he was rendered to Morocco for interrogation and torture.
Now he has released what he said were two telegrams sent from British intelligence to the CIA in November 2002.
In the first memo, the writer asks for a name to be put to him and then for him to be questioned further about that person.
The longest was when they chained me for eight days on end, in a position that meant I couldn’t stand straight nor sit
The second telegram asks about a timescale for further interrogation.
The legal organisation Reprive, which represents Mr Mohamed, said its client was shown the telegrams in Guantanamo Bay by his military lawyer Lieutenant Col Yvonne Bradley.
Mr Mohamed claimed he acquired the telegrams through the US legal process when he was fighting to be freed from Guantanamo Bay.
Daniel Sandford, BBC Home Affairs correspondent, said Mr Mohamed’s claims would be relatively simple to substantiate.
“As time progresses it will probably become quite apparent whether indeed these are true telegrams and I think it’s unlikely they’d be put into the public domain if they couldn’t eventually be checked back.”
The Conservatives have called for a police inquiry into his allegations of British collusion.
Mr Grieve called for a judicial inquiry into the allegations.
“And if the evidence is sufficient to bring a prosecution then the police ought to investigate it,” he added.
Liberal Democrat foreign affairs spokesman Ed Davey said there was a “rock solid” case for an independent judicial inquiry.
Labour MP Andrew Dismore, who chairs the joint committee on human rights, said he would asking the home and foreign secretaries to explain how Britain’s policy against torture is being implemented and monitored.
Shami Chakrabati, director of campaign group Liberty said: “These are more than allegations – these are pieces of a puzzle that are being put together.
“It makes an immediate criminal investigation absolutely inescapable.”
Former Conservative shadow home secretary David Davis accused the government of “stonewalling” by referring the claims to the Attorney General rather than the Director of Public Prosecutions.
“What appears to have happened is they have been turning blind eyes,” he added.
Mr Mohamed told the paper the worst part of this captivity was in Kabul’s “dark prison”.
“The toilet in the cell was a bucket,” he told the paper.
“There were loudspeakers in the cell, pumping out what felt like about 160 watts, a deafening volume, non-stop, 24 hours a day.
We abhor torture and never order it or condone it
Foreign Office spokesman
He added: “They chained me for eight days on end, in a position that meant I couldn’t stand straight nor sit.
“I couldn’t sleep. I had no idea whether it was day or night.”
Mr Mohamed spent just under seven years in custody, four of those in Guantanamo – the US’s camp in Cuba.
He was arrested in Pakistan in 2002 as US authorities considered him a would-be bomber who fought alongside the Taleban in Afghanistan.
But last year the US dropped all charges against him, and he was released in February.
A Foreign Office spokesman said: “We abhor torture and never order it or condone it.
“We take allegations of mistreatment seriously and investigate them when they are made.
“In the case of Binyam Mohamed, an allegation of possible criminal wrong-doing has been referred to the Attorney General.
“We need now to wait for her report.”
I realize on some level how silly this is, but I love the way I feel after having some beauty ritual performed, be it hair dressing or nail smoothing or whatever. Yesterday I had my hairs arranged and cut and made to look beautiful. Leaving the salon I could feel it silky and swinging on my neck. Odd how simply having my hairs arranged can provide a pick me up.
I think I have mentioned before that I am not naturally the sort of woman who easily maintains makeup and hair styling and whatnot. I am simply not one of those women who look perfectly made up at all times. I cannot keep my sausagey fingers from looking unkempt. I manage to keep pedicures looking somewhat okay, but I think mostly it is an illusion fostered by toes existing over five-and-half-feet from my eyes. If I get closer, I often notice there are little bumps in the polish or nicks on the edges of my nails.
I am perpetually battling dry feet skin, never able to achieve the milky white perfection seen on Photoshopped advertisements. I could probably make a mint if I figured out how to accomplish that little trick. I will stay on top of the eyebrows for several days in a row, then realize one morning that Hey, I haven’t looked at them in a while. It is with some foreboding I look into the mirror because I have had genuine fears of having my head turn into one giant hair pile, Cousin Itt come to life. Yikes! Except for lipstick (my take to an island mainstay), I have never been the sort to wear makeup for any length of time. I invariably forget and rub my eyes, or smear the stuff on my lids, or do something else equally unattractive.
I try to maintain a well put together outfit. I actually choose and wear quite pretty clothes. The problem is when nylons start creeping down so the crotch ends up between my thighs, or waistbands creep into uncomfortable creases, or I dribble something on my chest. You get the picture. And after a while, in spite of my greatest efforts, my hairs just start to fly about. I think it has something to do with the fact that my hairs would be curly left to their own devices. I use a brush and hairdryer to make it straight. It waits and then when I’m out in public some of the hairs stage a mutiny, reverting back to their curly ways.
While I was in the salon I read a little article about which beauty regimens women are giving up in times of financial difficulty, and those they simply cannot live without. I chuckled to myself at the irony of my sitting in that chair having my hairs arranged as my bank account is gradually depleted to nearly nothing while taking a break from job hunting. Attempting some semblance of beauty through hair dressing is most certainly the beauty regimen I will not give up. My answer to that question is easy. No matter what, I always manage to get my hairs arranged.
Hair is a funny thing. I tend to be the sort who, either through thin finances or thin time and sometimes both, leaves my hair arranging for 8 to 10 weeks rather than the recommended 6 to 8. The result is that I usually arrive at the salon looking like a scruffy puppy. While it is not much fun to go through life looking and feeling scruffy, it is marvelous to come out of the hair salon feeling like I got a shiny new coat of wax or something. The feeling lasts for a couple of weeks after the arranging. Then it fades into the background until the scruffiness reminds me that I really ought to do something and stop scaring people with the way I look.
I’m not alone in saying that the books of Dr. Seuss were among my favorites as a child. Unique and clever, they hold a spot in my heart because they contributed to the development of my lifelong delight with the english language. When I started reading to Milla his stories became her favorites too.
I do not like green eggs and ham, I do not like them Sam I am. I could recite the lines from Green Eggs and Ham in its entirety at age 2. After Milla came along and I read it to her over and over and over, she too could recite the entire book.
I could not stand Thing One and Thing Two. I wanted someone to slap them. I was grateful when the Cat came along and cleaned up their mess and the goldfish was back safely in his bowl.
I adored Horton. As a child I pondered whether we humans weren’t perhaps a speck in some giant’s universe or if tiny worlds existed, so minute we could blow them about like the dust that existed all around us. I admired Horton’s insistence on protecting the Whos and his unwillingness to allow them to perish.
I began to understand about discrimination after reading of the Star Bellied Sneetches. Mr. Geisel, a foe of fascism and racism, helped to teach small children what it means to dislike someone because of something superficial and meaningless. He helped us understand just how silly and perverse discrimination is.
I could go on and on, through each of these stories that are so dear to my heart. Thank you, Theodore Seuss Geisel. There are those of us who are grateful you were born.