2001-12-11 - 9:22 p.m.

On the internal soundtrack: "For All We Know", The Carpenters

From P.J. O'Rourke in this month's Atlantic:

What's causing the giant python lines at airport security checkpoints remains a mystery. An acquaintance, a plastic surgeon who specializes in cranial reconstruction, was returning from a conference on head injuries on September 11. His hand luggage contained three human skulls. These passed unremarked through the x-ray screening.

Well, and then there's what happened to me, although it's not certainly not as freaky as human skulls.

(Possible TMI ahead. If knowing what birth control I use will freak you out, skip to the next section. There's no discussion of its actual use, though.)

My -- well, I should say "our" -- birth control method of choice is a diaphragm with spermicide, plus condoms. Always together, every time. I figure if I still don't want kids by the time I'm 35 or so, I'll get my tubes tied or Poindexter will get snipped and then we can forget about this messy crap, but for the time being I'm stuck with this.

When Poindexter and I were living on opposite coasts, when I flew back and forth I only had one carryon bag that fit under the seat. This bag had a smaller pocket on the side that I called the "birth control pocket" and I carried my "birth control paraphernalia", as we called it, in this pocket. Didn't want it to freeze in the hold, so I always carried it on my person. The diaphragm has its own little squarish pink case.

One time at airport security, they picked me for a random bag check. The tall, ancient, skinny, empty-eyed, bored-looking man working there zeroed in on the birth control pocket straightaway. He poked through the condoms and Gynol II, then pulled out the pink diaphragm case.

He looked a tad perplexed, and turned it over a few times in his hands. And then -- and it was all I could do to keep from laughing out loud, although I'm sure I was grinning from ear to ear -- he held it up to his ear and shook it.

Apparently he was satisfied that there weren't any dangerous materials therein, because he just put it back, zipped up the side pocket, and let me on my merry way.

If I had been feeling bolder at the time, I might have said, "It's a DIAPHRAGM!" very loudly and offered to show it to him, but I wasn't feeling all that bold just then. Lucky for me, I don't embarrass easily.

A couple months ago, Poindexter was flipping through the channels and stopped on a program where former Special Forces soldiers were being interviewed.

One of them described the work he did. It was so dangerous and scary it made me nervously queasy just thinking about it. It sounded insane to me.

Then they asked him, in light of the war on Afghanistan, "Would you go back?"

I figured, of course he'll say no. Why would anyone CHOOSE to go back to such a dangerous lifestyle? He must've been glad to retire.

The guy said, "Well, I'm too old now, I'm not in the right physical shape to do it. But if I were young again, if I were in shape, I'd go back in a heartbeat."

My jaw dropped. I was truly surprised. That's when it sort of hit me: This is one of the most amazing things I can think of. There are people who WANT to be soldiers. Or cops. Or firemen. People who CHOOSE to put their life on the line each day because that is what makes them happiest. Not out of a sense of obligation or for the "greater good" but because it is WHO THEY ARE. I'm grateful that people like this exist, because I sure wouldn't want to do that kind of work, plus I'd suck at it.

One of 'em seems to be right here on LiveJournal. Hunh. When I read journals like this I get suspicious that the person is the fictional creation of the writer. But people like this do exist, god bless 'em.

I dug around a little, and here's what one study has to say about the kind of people who have the necessary ability for Special Forces:

"these Special Forces soldiers were marked by an intense faith in their own capabilities, and a belief that the need to rely on others carries with it the implication of weakness. This strong belief in existing often from childhood, and an established pattern of using active aggressive behavior to deal with any threat to their well being, is seen among the majority of men who choose Special Forces as a career. These qualities make him ideally suited to the rugged demands of guerrilla warfare, with it emphasis on the ability of the individual to survive by his own skill and resources against the severest natural and man made adversity. Special Forces provides him a lifestyle in which by exposing himself to extremely hazardous conditions and coping with them successfully, he can constantly reconfirm his faith in his own omnipotence and invulnerability."

Fascinating. Most definitely not the kind of guy I could stand to be around for very long, but this is the personality type that is required to do this kind of work. There are probably similarities for people who are the best cops and firemen as well.

Over the weekend, Rob and Rianna came over. I had found out the last time we visited them that Rob loves red velvet cake. Not long after, I found a recipe for quick red velvet cake in "Hints From Heloise" (which I rarely read; it just happened to catch my eye). I copied it and made it -- it's basically cake mix plus TWO BOTTLES (2 fluid ounces) of red food coloring.

When you put it in the bowl to mix, it looks like blood, which is sickly fascinating to me.

So anyway, I made two 8" cakes, and was gonna layer and frost it with stuff from the store, but when we called up the MIL asking if it was really TWO BOTTLES of coloring, she said she wanted to give us a recipe for fluffy frosting. Poindexter made it, and, well, it didn't fluff. It was grainy and wet, instead. But it tasted awfully good.

So when Rob and Rianna arrived, I had them taste the two kinds. Rob liked the homemade and Rianna liked the store-bought, so I had the brilliant idea that I would frost each half of the cake with the two different frostings.

Well. First, I think you're supposed to flatten the top of the bottom cake, or something. I didn't do that, so it was a tad wobbly. And the homemade stuff just dripped off the cake (hey; maybe it's a drippy frosting meant for a Bundt cake, not a fluffy one?). And I've never frosted a cake in my life, so I made a mess of it.

The whole time I was struggling with the cake, I had to put up with the peanut gallery leaning over the bar and watching me with great interest and amusement. I had tried to make them go watch a PS performance we had taped, to no avail. Poindexter questioned everything I did, and they talked amongst themselves, speculating about it. Finally I yelled,

"It's my Charlie Brown Red Velvet Cake! Stop making fun of my cake!"

As horrible as it looked, it tasted damn good. There were second helpings eaten. And that's really what counts, I suppose. It just needed a little love.

The other night, Poindexter and I were out for a stroll, and went by a park that just had a small fountain put in. I noticed that they'd finally put some water in the fountain.

Then I noticed that there was an extension cord going from the fountain to a small outlet sticking up out of the grass. I wanted to plug it in, but I was nervous.

Then Poindexter said, "I dare you. I double-dog dare you!" So of course I had to plug it in. So I did.

It's a pathetic little fountain, but it make me happy to sit there and listen to the trickling noise for a little while.

Then I unplugged it and we went home. I wonder what this is all about. Was it supposed to be unplugged? Is it supposed to be plugged in by passersby? I have trouble believing that. On the other hand, it's a nice idea, in a very weird sort of way.

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