I'll See You in the Funny Papers

For those you of you who have not heard, my title as a reporter has gained even more legitimacy now that I am a staff writer for the Santa Monica Mirror.

Please hold the applause until the end.

I am very pleased to say that I am covering the local news, leaving no rock unturned in order to bring Westside residents the latest of pertinent information. Translation: I am covering a lot of school board meetings, store openings and the occasional rally in the streets. Every journalist starts somewhere.

The news staff consists mainly of a few freelancers, me and our fearless leader/ editor extraordinaire. I even have my own desk and special notebook. I know, I know it’s pretty legit.

Although this is not a brand new development, I am starting to meld comfortably into the office dynamics. Not to say that I am going to let my brilliance slag in any way shape or form at this juncture. I actually could get used to this.

The Mirror has welcomed me to the team, which has been an much easier transition since the publisher and editor are almost as young as I am. We look like a bunch of high school kids that tried to make a run for the grown-ups table. I even own a rad trench coat that could double for a secret agent gig.

I am still working on my luncheon skills. Memo to me, don’t try to order anything that can get stuck in my teeth or requires a lot of carving. Also pay the meter over what you think you will need. It’s just bad form to start excessively sweating due to a panic attack over a parking ticket.

Hold the raised eyebrows, The Mirror has one of top visited news Websites on this side of the 405.

This is how half of my time is spent, on the phone

Check it out to see yours truly each week and keep an eye for the revamped version of the site in July www.smmirror.com (Sometimes Firefox can’t open the site so try Safari or Internet Explorer).

This is Katherine Peach saying good luck and good night.

Why Are American Doctors Mutilating Girls?

In this age it is shocking that such mind blowing inequalities would not only be tolerated, but promoted by an organization such as the American Academy of Pediatrics. This is a practice that serves no medical purpose, is mentally as well as physically damaging, and is illegal in the United States. The article posted at The Daily Beast is as follows:

A new proposal by the American Academy of Pediatrics would have doctors assisting families in the ritual of female circumcision, but activist and Nomad author Ayaan Hirsi Ali says they’d just be complicit in perpetuating a grave injustice.

The American Academy of Pediatrics recently put forward a proposal on female genital mutilation. They would like that American doctors be given permission to perform a ceremonial pinprick or “nick” on girls born into communities that practice female genital mutilation.

Female circumcision is a custom in many African and Asian countries whereby the genitals of a girl child are cut. There are roughly four procedures. First there is the ritual pinprick. This is what Pediatrics refers to as the “nick” option. To give you an idea of what that means, visualize a preteen girl held down by adults. Her clitoris is tweaked so that the circumcizer can hold it between her forefinger and her thumb. Then she takes a needle and pierces it using enough force for it to go into the peak of the clitoris. As soon as it bleeds, the parents and others attending the ceremony cheer, the girl is comforted and the celebrations follow.

The majority of girls are subjected to FGM to ensure their virginity and to curb their libido to guarantee sexual fidelity after marriage. Think of it as a genital burqa, designed to control female sexuality.

There is a more sinister meaning to the word “nick” if you consider the fact that in some cases it means to cut off the peak of the clitoris. Proponents compare “nicking” to the ritual of boy circumcision. But in the case of the boys, it is the foreskin that is all or partly removed and not a part of the penis head. In the case of the girls, the clitoris is actually mutilated.

Then there is the second method whereby a substantial part of the clitoris is removed and the opening of the vagina is sewn together (infibulation). The third variation adds to this the removal of the inner labia.

Nomad : From Islam to America, A Personal Journey Through the Clash of Civilizations. By Ayaan Hirsi Ali. 277 pages. Free Press. $27.Finally, there is a procedure whereby as much of the clitoris as possible is removed along with the inner and outer labia. Then the inner walls of the vagina are scraped until they bleed and are then bound with pins or thorns. The tissue on either side grows together, forming a thick scar. Two small openings roughly equal to the diameter of a matchstick are left for urination and menstruation respectively.

Often these operations are done without anesthesia and with tools such as sharp rocks, razor blades, knives or scissors depending on the location, family income, and education. It is thus more accurate—as does the World Health Organization—to speak of female genital mutilation (FGM) instead of the obscure and positive-sounding “circumcision.”

According to the American Congress of Obstetricians and Gynecologists, more than 130 million women and girls worldwide have undergone some form of female genital cutting. Some immigrant parents from countries like Egypt, Sudan, Somalia, and others in Europe and the United States, where FGM is common, continue this practice in the West even though they know that it is criminal. Some of them sneak their daughters out of the country during the long school summer vacation so that they can be subjected to any one of these forms of FGM.

Congressman Joseph Crowley (D-NY) recently introduced a bill to toughen federal laws by making it a crime to take a girl overseas to be circumcised. He argued, rightly, that FGM serves no medical purpose and is rightfully banned in the U.S.

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Resources don't grow on trees, people

So far Los Angeles has taught me about patience.

Patience to create a cove of friends, a real flock if you will, not a dreaded "network."

Patience to find genuine people to go out on the town, or the really specials one to spend the night in.

To wait for the winning pitch even if that means sitting until midnight, although it may never come at all.

Patience to wait for the bands that really matter, trusting good luck and fair judgment to find the right unknown legend to spend a night with.

Patience to scramble across town in hopes that you will be able to get in.

To sit on the 405 and wait for traffic to start moving.

To find the person who will get your name on the guest list in advance.

Patience to fight through security checkpoints, and wait for checked luggage. Even when said security drops panties on the floor in public (true story).

Patience to wait for the position of recognition that all career-oriented people strive for.

To break the devastating stories, whether good or bad, and speak with people who make a difference that I can believe in.

To write for a liberal magazine about artists and politics and sustainability in the garden...so I'm not picky on that part.

Patience to sit inside on a warm day with full sun and write that novel that is itching your fingertips.

Patience to trust your instincts when others say your wrong.

To know when you must, because you are right.

But mostly L.A. has taught me appreciate the people that don't care about a status or a faux paux or an accidental step backward on the corporate ladder.

It taught me to love fresh water and fresh air.

To not let the prickling in my toes turn in to anxieties about my future, or my rent, or the one who got away. Or even the what-ifs and the somedays.

If I am ever going to be the stringent editor scrutinizing the latest legislation on mandated sustainability requirements, while my breath-taking significant other waits with dinner at home, I must be patient.

Patience is just one of the many dwindling resource these days, so better not squander.

Namaste to the holiday

This Easter holiday many people are spending time with family, dying egg shells and various body parts delightful pastels or just running outside of their homes in the shock of an earthquake (at least anyone from Baja California to Sacramento).

I decided to finally exercise my physical and spiritual self by going to a much overdue yoga class. In all reality, I had forgotten that it was bunny day and was overjoyed to see that my class wasn't canceled.

I was a bit nervous after missing class for months due to poor excuses and staying much too comfy in bed well past the waking hour. Muscles begin to atrophy and will power gets soft if not exercised. My usual Sunday activity is more similar to the picture below.

Mostly, I hate being that person who can't just balance on one foot with their heel tucked neatly above the kneecap like some sort of heron. I find it disrupts everyone’s focus when I can’t stop swearing under my breath as I flail wildly. (Similar to the picture below, but without the scenery)

I had determined that this wasn’t going to be one of those sessions. Instead it turned out to be much more uncomfortable in a variety of ways.

It’s advantageous to show up early for most things, but not when you have to take the initiative to be the first mat on the floor. Often that's the person that has to be told their facing the wrong wall.

It’s also courteous to go to the front of the room, but that always means the entire room watches your feeble attempts of downward-facing dog.

I chose to hover near the cubbies where I sipped water, wishing that I would have brought my phone to at least pretend like I had pressing engagements to deal with. Instead I channeled the look of an awkward turtle.

I had already run out of stretches and people started looking at me funny for watching each new person walk in so intently. I settled on my mat, so not to draw attention. I got stuck in the front row.

There is that feeling that rests on the back of my neck when my back is to the door at a given establishment, especially bars. Not sure if I'm keeping an eye out for axe-wielding psychopaths or practicing for my future job as a bouncer.

The instructor showed up late.

I immediately worked out the aches and pains that had been plaguing me for weeks. My legs and arms shook like a jackhammer, but with every deep breath I felt more victorious.

Andreas led us through 20 minutes of meditation inviting everyone to focus on the gratitude for all of the people in our lives. I tried to stop thinking about the coat on sale that I would be going to purchase after class. It was a killer deal though.

Some guy started snoring loudly in the middle of the room affirming that my meditations weren’t all that bad. At least I was still conscious.

Take that girl who did handstands when I can't even make my hands touch behind my back.

Andreas played a small organ that produced sound with accordion-like folds on the back. Chanting together in the warm room and hearing the words echo off the floorboards reminded me of hymns in church.

Closest thing to a spiritual service I had attended in a while. I thanked Andreas wholeheartedly after class for such an enlightening session on Easter.

I then realized I had forgotten to bring any cash to put in the donation box. My swift exit was the most agile move I made all day.

I don't think my internal clock adjusted for daylight savings time

Children have always scared my very nature.

I've always had this irrational fear of small things, such as bugs or midgets in costume.

I have the attention span of a six-year-old, so one might think we would jive better.

I work at a cafe down the hall from a dance school and children are crawling all over the café on any given day.

Recently when a three-year-old walks in wearing a tu-tu and a pink bow, my womb practically quivers.

I hear a tiny little voice or little hands pointing and I melt. I will wave hello to smiling children and brim with joy when they wave back.

I neither encourage nor rationalize such behavior.

The sudden affection for these tiny people may stem from my state of peak physical health.

I finally quit smoking, eating meat and drinking like a I should attend meetings where I introduce myself with a, "Hi, my name is..." At least, for the most part.

My womb must have caught on.

Of course the body doesn't factor in my bleak financial state or lack of life partner.

Not to mention that I inherited my father's slender, not-for-birthing hips.

And I consistently forget not to refer to children as "it."

And I love to make up absurd lies to kids for my own amusement.

Like when my friend's little sister asked about my navel ring, I told her a stranger attacked and stabbed me through the belly button. So I decided to put a ring there.

Man, her eyes bugged out of her head when I made a hooking motion.

Or that I can't keep a plant alive. Even my cactus.

Or how my last two pets, I put to sleep. For peeing on the bed and wanting to move across country, respectively.

Still, I just want to hug these unbalanced little toddlers for emitting a proud hello when I walk by.

I do fear being near new babies. I might accidently poke the soft spot of their skull and take away their ability to read. I can't even hold my phone without dropping it.

My mother loved to scare her daughters the fact that we come from a long line of procreators. The idea of being stupidly fertile sure kept my sixteen-year-old self home on a Friday night.

If I ever do get pregnant,

I would lose my mind trying to make my baby better than all the other babies. That's a lot of pressure for someone who just discovered their toes.

This competitive nature also runs in the family. Mom had to ban the "love taps" game. In retribution for the taps, we began to pummel one another. Dad included.

I snap back to reality when I watch a child turn blue as they scream over the delicious cookies the cafe has to offer.

Or an exasperated mom eat her first crouton after 45 minutes of wrangling her squirming child into a seat.

Seeing the tear-stained faces, I remember what kids mean.

The complete inability of privacy for eighteen years.

I think it's enough for now to just work on the plant thing.

Maybe I should just invest in a Moped and call it a day

I always thought that it was the mechanics that you really had to worry about. Turns out Saturn made a recall the timing chain on a SELECT few 2001 L100 2.2L 4-cylinder vehicles in 2008.

Guess who has that exact car from 2001 and a broken timing chain? Now guess who’s VIN number does not apply to the recall?

Only about 20,000 cars were recalled on that one specific make and model, while countless reports of timing chains breaking from all L-series cars have flooded the internet for years (this guy really took this seriously http://dontbuysaturn.blogspot.com/). Some breaks caused the car to shut-off at highway speeds or in the middle of intersections.

Don’t worry Saturn stopped production on L-series cars years ago and now GMC shut down the company due to its poor ability to make money or reliable cars.

So I may be late on the joke, as I’m sure some of you just shake you head while your Prius accelerates to uncontrollable speeds on the freeway. My stomach churns as Toyota laughs all the way to the bank.

My two-door Saturn with the extra junk in the trunk has stopped working. As in it just wouldn’t start after I got out of work this past week. Bummer.

A knight in shining armor allows me to use an AAA tow to get it to the most reliable sounding garage within seven-miles. Totally investing in AAA from now on. That is of course if I can ever afford to fix/buy a new car.

Little Saturn gets towed to Santa Monica Brake, which I am pleased to hear is approved by mechanic friends and friends of friends alike. Yelp.com really is worth its weight in gold.

Glad to also hear SMB will work on my domestic car since none of the garages in this city bother to work on anything other than foreign cars, specifically shiny BMWs. Damn Los Angeles yuppies.

George looks over my engine and listens intently as he revs the engine. I try to control the sweats that have taken over my body.

“So it’s not your starter.”

“You sure?”

“Yup. It’s the timing chain.”

“Oh, ok.”

“Must worse.”

Well, maird.

“This car is done for.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh yeah, I bet you could get a great deal on a Toyota right about now though.”

He chuckles. I hold back vomit. The sweats are now brought on with fervor.

George continues to explain that the engine will stop when the timing chain breaks. After 150,00 that’s not too bad compared to belts that need to be replaced often in other cars. Unfortunately, without a working engine means no compression to check what else may have been damaged.

Translation: I may spend over a grand to find out the engine is shot. Game over.

This is on a car with the passenger-side mirror duct taped to the car and zip ties holding the bumper on. I can see why he would say the car is donezo.

George calls me the next day to inform me that there is a god. The timing chain on 2001 Saturn L100 vehicles were recalled and it can get fixed for free. I just need to call the 800 number for Saturn and go from there.

After multiple calls to the helpline and GMC dealers left to deal with Saturn’s messes, I am told my car does not apply to the recall. My specific VIN missed the recall by a few hundred numbers.

When I tell George the news, he curses at the swindling assholes for cowardice.

So instead of getting the guy fixed for the problem that it was discontinued for, I get to foot the bill and hope that a bunch of other stuff didn’t get messed up in the process.

This is what I get for living in a city of sprawl. I had to pick sun over reliable public transportation. Chicago is giving me a big ‘ole I told you so.

At least I feel like I have a mechanic on my side. Really didn’t see that one coming. All I can say about Saturn/GMC is karma is a saucy mistress.

Three cheers for high-speed rails! Anybody with me? Anybody?