mm-MM! gotta love that prison chow.


A little while ago I got the following email from a coworker:

"Butch [her fiance] wants to know if anybody wants to buy a plate from the employees at City Prison and he will deliver them Tuesday at about noon.

You get a choice of chicken or fish and two vegetables and bread for $6 or both meats and two vegetables and a bread for $7. Let me know by Monday afternoon so I can let him know. Thanks."

I was agog for a few seconds before I started laughing. I mean, who's going to buy lunch from a prison? You've gotta figure the people cooking the food are bitter and surly and what if they don't wash their hands? Also, it sounds mighty shady to me. One has to assume the prison itself is not in the business of selling lunches on the side but that the employees are selling them (made with taxpayer-purchased ingredients) and pocketing the money. No thank you. I mean, is the fish fresh? I doubt it.

Speaking of fresh, did you ever have that not so fresh feeling? In your ovaries? The other day I was listening to the radio while driving and I heard an ad about how women can sell their eggs to help infertile couples. Towards the end of the ad they said they were looking for women aged 20 to 34, and I suddenly felt a tiny bit older, knowing that my eggs are withered and undesirable, since they're 35 years old. Not that I'd want to sell my eggs anyway (I've heard there are a lot of shots involved and that the ovaries swell up like little balloons), but at least I used to have the option.

I mentioned this to one of my coworkers and she would not sell her eggs because then she might have some children running around that she wouldn't know about. And when she said that, I heard the words but didn't really comprehend them, because it seems so abstract to me. I don't feel like my eggs are really mine, or that they're even part of me, though obviously they contain my DNA. If I donated my eggs I would rarely, if ever, think about little people walking around who might have my hair or my nose or my very bad eyesight. For some reason, realizing that I don't think of my eggs as part of me makes me feel secure in my decision not to have any babies. I have zero need to see my ears on a tiny head, or to try and cram a smaller size of my feet into booties. I have big feet, see. Francisco has better DNA than I do, and thank goodness he doesn't want babies either. I don't think I'd be very good at gestating someone.

Have a great weekend,


E |


come over some time & see me - 2011-02-25
let's not say goodbye - 2011-02-23
the Rachel Zoe collection - 2011-02-10
I feel happy today - 2011-02-04
the tiny snow stalker - 2011-01-25

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