Adventures of the Struggling Writer — Day 8

Before I begin discussion on various breeds of chickens suitable for backyard raising, allow me to present Mr. Neil Patrick Harris, doing what he does best—singing, dancing, and looking all kinds of hawt!

You know that saying, “I would go gay for you?”  Well, I guess it works in this case for NPH as well.  Except in my case, I need an additional caveat, e.g. “I would become a man and go gay for you!”

I digress.  Let me return to the focus of this post, Tina Fey & NPH—I mean, chickens.  Now that I’ve done sufficient research into the type of chicken coop the hubby and I will build (it’s going to be the Rolls Royce of chicken coops, I tell you . . . ok, maybe more like a Toyota), I now need to dive headfirst into the world of chicken breeds.  Now, I don’t know about you, but I was mighty ignorant before engaging in this research.  I didn’t realize there were multiple breeds of chicken.  In retrospect, of course, that makes perfect sense.  Indeed, I believe that many people shared my belief—there is but one breed of chicken that lays eggs, and it is the chicken that is on the cover of the Foster Farms bag.  You know, this one:

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But in all seriousness, I didn’t think that all chickens looked like this cartoonish chicken with a massively engorged, bright red, waddle.  I wasn’t born yesterday, people.  Rather, I figured most egg-laying chickens looked more like this:

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Now, imagine my shock and awe when I discovered that there are literally hundreds of breeds of chickens.  Chickens are kind of like other domesticated animals—they come in all different shapes, colors, and sizes.  To narrow down the field to the most qualified contestants, I consulted My Pet Chicken and its handy-dandy “Which Breed is for You?” tool to create the finalists for Ms. Backyard Fowl USA.  Drum roll please.

Contestant Number 1 is named Australorp.  A chick hailing from the badlands of Australia, Ms. Australorp loves to have a good time.  She does well in all climates, takes fondling quite well, but yet is also shy and docile.  Considered “sweet and shy” by My Pet Chicken, Ms. Australorp’s best feature appears to be her ability to lay ginormous brown eggs—about 5 a week.

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Contestant Number 2 is named Delaware.  As you probably guessed, Ms. Delaware hails from that little state you barely go through from DC to NY where meth addicts walk around the rest stop, asking you for money for gas, because they lost their “college credit card,” and you end up giving them a $10 because that was the smallest bill you had and you were frightened of pregnant meth-face and her methy boyfriend.  I digress.  Ms. Delaware is a plus-sized beauty, who is quiet, friendly, and calm.  Not quite as adept as her Australian competitor, Ms. Delaware only pops out about 4 eggs a week.  Her white feathers make her look much like Ms. Foster Farms, whose wings go very well with Frank’s Hot Sauce and butter.

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Contestant Number 3 is named Ms. Easter Egger.  I’m not kidding, folks—Ms. Easter Egger must have quite the sense of humor.  Boasting a much slender frame than her plus-sized competitors, Ms. Easter Egger is a fun chick, who isn’t afraid to be dominated, as she bears confinement and handling quite well.  Ms. Easter Eggers produces about 4 beautiful greenish/bluish eggs a week.

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Contestant Number 4 hails from France, and is named Ms. Faverolles.  While her competitors have only 4 toes, the feisty Frenchie has 5 slender toes to stomp out her competition.  Her competition may spend much of the year brooding at home, but Frenchie would rather be out on solo excursions.  Frenchie lays about 4 eggs a week, of medium size.  Perhaps what is most striking about Frenchie is her neck.  I’m growling just thinking about it.

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Finally, and bringing up the rear, Contestant Number 5 is a Star.  No, really.  Ms. Star is considered an “excellent layer.”  Cue the jokes.  Consistent with her excellent laying abilities, Ms. Star is quite the friendly chick, docile to handlers, and loves to lay big brown eggs (5 a week, in fact).  Covered in beautiful black feathers, Ms. Star is one hot chick.

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So now that the competition is set, time to pick our birds.  What hot chicks will win the grand prize of living in my parents’ backyard?

This has inspired yet another genius idea for scriptwriting.  NPH and Tina Fey, email me.  I’ve got your WGA/Golden Globe/Emmy in my brain.  And I’ll let you have it for free.

Discover me, Tina Fey & NPH!!!

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Adventures of the Struggling Writer — Day 7

I consider myself to be a person of well-rounded capabilities and interests.  So when my folks mentioned that they wanted to raise chickens, I immediately pounced on the idea.

This isn’t my family’s first foray into egg and poultry farming.  When I was younger (the exact time period escapes me, since my innate abilities to block out unpleasantries has clouded my memory), my parents owned chickens.  We all schlepped down to a farm in the South Bay to pick up some fruit trees and some chicks.  I don’t recall the details of the chick acquisition, but I do remember when the chickens invaded our backyard.  Prior to the arrival of the talon-wielding, perpetually-shitting, predators of all that is clean, I loved our backyard.  I would kick soccer balls and throw tennis balls into a net on one side of the yard.  I played basketball as James Naismith originally envisioned–chucking a basketball into a crate doubling as a hoop.  I even had an old skateboard, discovered at the Toys R Us for the creative (aka the dump), which I used to mindlessly roll around in circles on the paved square of the yard.

After invasion, however, I never set foot into that yard.  The thought of these nasty creatures, crapping all over the place, feverishly dipping their heads forward while armed with their pointy beaks, and shedding their feathers inevitably coated with even more crap—well, let’s just say that this kid didn’t want anything to do with these fowl incubators for avian flu.  My parents, however, had much higher aspirations for the birds.  Every day, they would go out into the yard and scour the grounds for treasures left behind by the birds—not the shit, but rather the eggs.

The birds of my childhood were not great egg-layers.  I recall my folks being disappointed with the number of eggs.  The eggs we did obtain were oddly-colored (or so I thought at that age).  Green tinted, with outrageously orangey yolks, I never ate those eggs.  I thought they were nasty.  I much preferred the eggs purchased en masse at the store—you know, the eggs produced by chickens stuffed with antibiotics and corn products, who have never seen the sun, have had their beaks clipped, and spend their short lives popping out eggs in a horrendously confined space?  Yeah, I liked those eggs.  They were white; they were uniform; they were predictable.  My parents, however, loved the eggs produced by our chickens.  They boasted of the amazing flavors of the fresh eggs.  I made wretched faces in response, boldly proclaiming that I would never touch those salmonella-filled harbingers of death.

Then, one day.  The chickens were gone.  Perhaps they disappeared the same day we had roasted chicken for dinner.  I didn’t eat that night.

Fast forward to today, where I am now on a quest to help build the most fantastic chicken coop for my folks.  A chicken coop that will make other chickens cluck in jealousy.  There is quite a bit of information on the ‘Net for people interested in building their own backyard chicken coops.  In fact, local newsman Dan Ashley had this report on the rise of Urban Chickens.  Featured in that report were Paul Canavese and Ann Naffziger, an Alameda couple who raise their own backyard chickens (that yield approx. 1900 eggs a year).  I did a little Web-stalking and found their web site as well.

Based on my research, I will need to first build (or buy) a chicken coop, and then purchase chicks.  As for building a chicken coop, there are quite a few considerations.  I’ve seen blueprints, instructions, and/or basic pictures of sample coops built by others on the popular site, Backyard Chickens.  From what I understand, there are some basic rules to follow in cooping:

  1. Protection:  Your birds need to be protected from the elements and potential predators.  The weather around here is incredibly mild, so we’ll just need something that will keep the birds dry when it rains, and to keep out any unwanted predators (are there raccoons in the Bay?).
  2. Ventilation:  A chicken with fresh air is a happy chicken.  And happy chickens produce a crapload of eggs, rather than just crap.
  3. Light:  For optimum egg-laying, chickens also need sunlight.  The windows of the coop should thus be facing the south, to ensure maximum chicken tanning.  Kind of like Snooki on Jersey Shore.  Can I get a fist pump for fake and bake chickens?
  4. Proper Placement of Food & Water:  Chickens apparently like to scratch at everything, including their food.  So a good coop has food and water placed just high enough that the chicken can eat/drink, yet are unable to get their grimy claws in.
  5. Proper Height of Coop:  You also want the coop to be off the ground to keep puddles from forming when it rains.  Can you imagine what happens if rainwater mixes with chicken shit and ferments over the winter months?  Yikes.
  6. Size:  Chickens are like people.  They need their space from other chickens.  I lived in a 9 ft X 12 ft cell in law school (with cinder block walls–not dissimilar to prison).  Chickens, being significantly smaller than me, only need about 5 sq ft per bird in the coop, and another 8-10 sq ft outside the coop.
  7. Nests:  The coop also needs to contain nests for the birds to lay their eggs in.  Basic straw will do.
  8. Ingenuity:  Finally, the coop needs to be easily cleaned.  Birds crap a lot.  And I mean a lot.  You’ll need to build a coop that can easily be hosed down, e.g. with a removable floor.  Get some rubber gloves.  Because cleaning the shit will be as nasty as it sounds.

That’s it for coop-building.  Perhaps tomorrow, I will research the types of chickens to obtain.  How disturbing would it be if we got the chicks and named them Tyson, Purdue, and Foster Farms?  Awesome.

Oh, and if NPH or Tina Fey want some fresh eggs, contact me in about 3 months.  I can ship you some eggs, wrapped in a beautiful script.

Discover me, Tina Fey & NPH!!!

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Adventures of the Struggling Writer — Day 6

I am a sucker for technology.  I grew up hanging out with my older brother, who was one of the first people to ever get a cell phone.  You know, one of those ginormous monstrosities that looked like it was going to engulf the side of your head?  Well, flash forward now to 2010 (pronounced twenty-ten), and my adoration and fascination with technology has continued.  In no particular order, I’m looking forward to acquiring the following:

  • An Apple Tablet computer:  Rumors are that the Tablet will be akin to a super-sized iPod Touch.  Currently, I use my Touch to play Bejeweled, check and update my Twitter (follow me at @alexisnectar), study my Mandarin Chinese flashcards (so that when I finally meet Tina Fey & NPH in person, I can say, “Renshi ni hen gao xing!” and to NPH specifically, “Wo yao sheng ni de xiao hai”), and watch the Robin Sparkles music video, “Sandcastles in the Sand.”  Since the Tablet will simply be a Biggest Loser version of the iPod Touch (I’m talking season premiere episode), I will be able to enjoy my iTouch activities in the American way—go big, or go home!
  • A Parrot AR.Drone remote-controlled quadricopter:  The hubby and I have been wanting to get remote-controlled helicopters after we played around with the heli gifted to our cousin for Chrismakkah.  Hubby thinks that I want one so we can race our helicopters.  Between you and me, however, I have much higher aspirations.  Wink Wink.  Knee Slap!  Imagine what I could do with a device that could carry a small video camera, and fly up high into the skylines of Southern California and Manhattan—high enough to peer into the windows of certain individuals, perhaps named Tina or Neil?  Now imagine if that helicopter had sufficient power to act almost like a homing pigeon (sans shit), thereby allowing it to carry a tightly bound script and dump it into an open window of certain individuals, perhaps named Tina or Neil?  The possibilities are limitless!
  • A 3D Television:  After watching Avatar in IMAX 3D, I now know that 3D is the future of entertainment.  The media conglomerates are indeed jumping on this bandwagon, as significant capital is being invested into the development of 3D television sets and programming for the home viewer.  ESPN will be launching a 3D network this spring, and other channels will soon follow, depending on the inevitable success of the venture.  I too want a 3D television and the accompanying 3D glasses.  Currently, television is not solely a solitary sport—you can watch television with your friends and family and enjoy the brainless entertainment together.  However, with 3D television, the possibilities of seclusion are finally within grasp.  Armed with 3D glasses that blur out everything but the TV, we will finally be empowered to sit alone and isolate ourselves from all non-digital humanity.  I can already imagine watching a 30 Rock episode where Liz trips on an icy Manhattan sidewalk and flings a mustard-topped Nathan’s hot dog into my face, meant not to add anything to the substance of the show, but rather to shamelessly take advantage of 3D technology and includes advertising.  Or an episode of HIMYM where Barney steps out of the screen before me, sticks out his chest, raises his chin, winks, and says, “I.  Am.  Awesome.”

I wonder when I’ll be able to record myself in 3D.  I envision my 3D self taking over the airwaves, pleading to Tina Fey & NPH to hear my cries for help discovery.  Technology will make my delusions of grandeur finally come to fruition.

Discover me, Tina Fey & NPH!!!

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Adventures of the Struggling Writer — Resolutions

In the interest of all that is expected, herein lie my New Year’s Resolutions.  I know what you all are thinking (all two of you, including hubby) . . . her New Year’s resolution is to be discovered by Tina Fey and NPH.  Wah wah wah.  Alas, while that is a resolution I hold near and dear to my heart, it frankly will not be on this list, because that is not a resolution, but in fact the meaning of my very existence.  I consider New Year’s Resolutions to involve tasks and goals that you desire, but you also consciously or subconsciously know that you will likely give up on said tasks and goals by March at the latest, January 2 at the earliest.  So drum roll please . . . below, I present my list of resolutions I plan on breaking by March of 2010.

  1. Traveling to Queens and Standing Outside of the 30 Rock Studios for 30 Hours Wearing Nothing but 30 Intricately Placed Diamonds:  Technically, I understand that this task sounds like a “Discover me, Tina Fey” task.  But I had to recategorize this task as a resolution when I realized that the procurement of 30 adequately-sized diamonds would not be realizable, especially since the hubby and I failed to win at our last Super Lotto attempt.  Therefore, it becomes a resolution, and I plan on easily breaking this resolution by January 2.
  2. Undergoing Extensive Plastic Surgery In Order to Look Like David Burtka:  For those of you who don’t know, NPH’s boyfriend is David Burtka.  For those of you who know me, I don’t look like David Burtka.  However, if indeed I looked like David Burtka, I could perhaps position myself outside of NPH’s home—watering the plants, for example—and NPH could mistaken me for his boyfriend, ask me whether I wanted to have the leftover lamb vindaloo for dinner or go out instead, and I would respond by providing him with my script and running away as the real David Burtka stumbles out of the shed in which he accidentally locked himself into.  Given that I need only find a qualified plastic surgeon who would be willing to engage in such pro bono work, I give this resolution until March 15.
  3. Not Exercising:  I like to think outside of the box and adopt resolutions that make me one-of-a-kind.  Being a fitness fanatic, I resolve to sit on my ass and remain as immobilized as possible so my buttocks can expand and engulf the remainder of my body, giving a whole new meaning to the word, “asshole.”  Who am I kidding?  I give this resolution until 9am on January 1.
  4. Become a Choreographer and Join Nappy Tabs:  Once I accomplish this goal of becoming a choreographer specializing in general hip hop and that subset of hip hop called lyrical hip hop (which, as I’ve been told, does not actually exist), I will join Nappy Tabs, and we will create a new choreography trio called Nectarized Nappy Tabs.  We will take SYTYCD by storm, to the point where each and every dance of each and every episode will be choreographed by us, and I will reap said financial rewards from this endeavor and reinvest those monies into finally being discovered by Tina Fey & NPH.

For my three readers, may all your New Year’s Resolutions be as attainable as mine.  May you bask in the shame of your resolution failures, and may your outlandish delusions of fame and fortune overtake your already-eroding concept of reality.  Happy New Year folks!

Discover me, Tina Fey & NPH!!!

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Adventures of the Struggling Writer — Day 5

My quest to meet Tina Fey & NPH has taken me to the four corners of this Earth, so to speak.  I’ve attempted to place myself in positions that would enable me to “accidentally” run into these two saviors of comedy.  To quote the hubby, it’s not “stalking” . . . it’s “strategic networking.”  That’ll be my primary defense should I find myself handcuffed in the back of a black and white vehicle in front of NPH’s southern California pad as the cops confiscate my binoculars.  Because my script is so awesome, I won’t let them get their paws on that—see my inspiration below.

Last week, as part of my strategic networking plan, I headed over to Macy’s in downtown San Francisco to assist the SPCA with adoptions of dogs and cats.  Every year, during the holidays when people are overwhelmed by the haze of egg nog and David Archuleta’s Christmas album, the SPCA sets up window displays of adoptable animals at Macy’s.  I figured, on the off chance that Tina Fey or NPH have decided to visit San Francisco, they’d likely visit Union Square, and by assisting with the collection of donations, I would have a surefire way of being within 20 yards of my targets (I wonder what the average restraining order prescribes as a safe distance?).  So, with my collection jar in hand, an SPCA jacket on my back, and a friendly unassuming smile, I began my work.

Now, collecting donations in front of windows displaying kittens and a doggie is not that difficult, if you think about it.  The SPCA, however, helps you out by providing you with some simple instructions on how to encourage people to give.  Phrases like, “Gimme yo dough or the kitties be no mo” simply are not effective, as I was told with a wary eye.  They suggested something like, “Would you like to make a donation to the San Francisco SPCA?”  I found that line to be way too long and complicated, yielding in little money but instead leading to incessant questioning as to what “SPCA” stands for.  So, as a compromise between my catchy phrase and the party line, I decided to go with something along the lines of, “Would you like to make a donation to help these kittens find a real home?”  That worked pretty damn well, as I received plenty of singles, fives, ten-spots, and even a 20 in my two hours of volunteering.

I did not, however, manage to see Tina Fey or NPH.  However, I did accost approach each and every brunette woman donning glasses and ask for a donation, but none of them proved to be the target of my strategic networking.  At one point, I thought NPH had stormed in front of me screaming because he was so excited that he had finally been located by me, but alas, it was a somewhat crazy man telling all donators that they were going to hell for donating to dogs and not people.  As crazy man came near me, I quickly ingested my script, fearing that it was a ruse to get to my script of gold.  For days after, I payed dearly for that ingestion.  Will I ever find you, Tina Fey or NPH?  Hear my pleas.  Savor my devotion.

Discover me, Tina Fey & NPH!!!

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Adventures of the Struggling Writer — Day 4

I have continued to brainstorm means by which I can attract the attention of Tina Fey and NPH.  While I continue in this successless endeavor, I have honed my skills as a writer by watching hours and hours of television and cinema.  On Friday, I joined legions of other moviegoers in watching “Avatar,” the movie about blue people.  And for my two readers—don’t worry, I will provide fair warning as to any spoilers in this post.

To be perfectly frank, I did not want to see Avatar.  The preview did not adequately inspire me to want to spend hard-earned cash to sit in a cramped movie theater, attempting to watch the film while holding my pee (and cursing myself for drinking that last Diet Coke), and trying desperately not to curse at the idiots who insist on talking on the phone or texting a friend (who often happens to be sitting right next to that wretched and rude individual).  How exciting could a movie about blue people be?  As a child, I had a voracious appetite for all things Smurfs, at one point deciding that I would become Mrs. Handy Smurf.  Perhaps the movie is like the Smurfs?  Lots of blue people, with a single blue female who, by necessity, is the town whore?  Or perhaps the color of the indigenous people in Avatar is more symbolic, reflecting some sort of underlying theme or meaning behind a film that otherwise superficially appears to be the consequence of providing $230 million in expendable cash to a boy who likes special effects?  In any event, suffice it to say that I was not expecting to enjoy this film.  Indeed, I was expecting to leave this film feeling like I had just earned enough goodwill to force the hubby to attend the next feature film based on a novel by Nicholas Sparks.

Alas—and here come the spoilers—I LOVED this movie.  Yes, folks, I love the Na’vi.  The film contained just the right mix of conflict, fantasy, and romance to make me, an originally skeptical participant, into a real believer.  I like to think that the film itself is a strange mash-up of “The Last Samurai,” “The Little Mermaid,” and “The Smurfs.”  You’ll understand what I mean if you watch the film.  Negatives of the film include some horribly-written one-liners—likely a reflection of how Cameron views military personnel as individuals who are forced to shed humanity in favor of barbarousness; and the casting of Giovanni Ribisi, whose cheeks are just a little too pinchable for a character who the viewer is supposed to despise.  Additionally, the climactic fight scene to the death lasts just a bit too long, with GI Joe refusing to just fall over and die, making the film a bit Michael Bay-esque.

After watching this film in 2D format, I now must return to the theater to watch the 3D IMAX spectacle.  Perhaps, in honor of the film, I will paint myself blue, sprout a tail, and grow a magical ponytail that will enable me to control mythical aerial creatures.  One can only dream.

Discover me, Tina Fey & NPH!

Just for shits and giggles, here’s a picture of a female Na’vi with a sexy Smurf.  I’m growling right now.

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Adventures of the Struggling Writer — Day Three

This weekend, I watched the film, Julie & Julia—primarily because it starred Meryl Streep and the chick from Enchanted.  I mean, Meryl Streep is like the most celebrated actor of all time.  She’s kind of like bacon.  If it’s got bacon, you know it’s gonna be good (except for that awful bacon dessert made by Kevin aka “the MIT guy” on Top Chef—can we say EW?).

I had no idea what to expect in watching the film, but I become quite envious of the Julie character (I was going to say spoiler alert, except it’s not a spoiler to state the complete obvious), because she effectively became rich and famous by blogging.  Julie earned her accolades by going through the Julia Child cookbook, “Mastering the Art of French Cooking,” and blogging about her attempts at accurately following the directions of the iconic American Frenchie, Julia Child.

So I’ve been inspired by Julie to continue in my pleas to Tina Fey and NPH who, to date, have yet to acknowledge my existence.  Although, in a moment of sheer insanity, I did believe that the most recent HIMYM contained NPH’s secret signals to me—you know, when he continually winked at the camera.  I was totally like, “Neil!  I see you!  I love you!  I will carry your lovechild!  I will travel to LA to find you and follow you in a totally legal and non-stalkerish fashion!”  I digress.

What can I, an attorney with outlandish dreams of eventually becoming an EGOT winner, possibly write about, on a consistent basis, that would yield in the achievement of my laughable fantasies?  I certainly don’t have the patience or wherewithal to cook from a fancy French cookbook every day (unless someone were to provide me with a substantial advance . . .).  I could write about my attempts at mimicking dance routines from SYTYCD, but such shenanigans cannot be adequately described in just words alone—just a couple weeks ago, I tried to complete at least 5 pirouettes in sequence and found that my body would effectively become frozen at about 3/4 of a pirouette, causing me to tumble to the floor in a heap of all that is not graceful.

Perhaps that, then, is why Tina and Neil have not discovered me.  I don’t have direction.  What shall I devote my blogging to in the upcoming days until my pending occupational nuptials with 30 Rock or HIMYM?

Screw it.  I like my current theme.  Discover me, Tina Fey & NPH!!!

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Adventures of the Struggling Writer — Day Two

I am quite opinionated, although I haven’t voiced those opinions on this blog since that idiot from Alaska insulted me with her unending presence on television.  I am a struggling writer, and I derive much of my inspiration from current events.  I must weigh in on the mammogram controversy, or, as I like to call it, “How 16 ‘Experts’ Became My Insurer’s Best Friends.”

As everyone now knows, a federal advisory board has issued a new recommendation on mammograms—put bluntly, the board rescinded the prior recommendation that women in their 40s should get mammograms yearly (or every other year).  Instead, the board now recommends that women 50 and older get mammograms every two years.

Breast cancer afflicts hundreds of thousands of women every year.  Chances are, you or someone you know has suffered from the disease.  It is common knowledge that the rate of mortality for the disease significantly decreases if the disease is caught in its early stages—and one of the most effective tools to that end is the mammogram.  Indeed, as acknowledged by the board, “Breast cancer is the second-leading cause of cancer death among women in the United States.  Widespread use of screening, along with treatment advances in recent years, have been credited with significant reductions in breast cancer mortality.”

So why, then, is the board suddenly turning a 180 on early screening—when that very screening reduces mortality?  Well, the board apparently is primarily concerned about a woman’s psychological well-being.  From the report:

The harms resulting from screening for breast cancer include psychological harms, unnecessary imaging tests and biopsies in women without cancer, and inconvenience due to false-positive screening results. Furthermore, one must also consider the harms associated with treatment of cancer that would not become clinically apparent during a woman’s lifetime (overdiagnosis), as well as the harms of unnecessary earlier treatment of breast cancer that would have become clinically apparent but would not have shortened a woman’s life. Radiation exposure (from radiologic tests), although a minor concern, is also a consideration.

Let’s examine the secondary concerns, namely “overdiagnosis,” “earlier treatment” and “radiation exposure.”  These concerns exist independently from the efficacy of a mammogram.  In other words, the issue the board appears to have is not with the ability of the mammogram to detect cancer—rather, they fear that some health professionals may take an overly aggressive approach after seeing ambiguous signs of cancer through a mammogram.  If the issue is with the risk of an overly aggressive assault on maybe-cancer, then the board may be warranted in issuing recommendations on those procedures, not the mammogram itself.

The primary concerns, however, have to do with the board’s incredibly patronizing views regarding a woman’s psychological well-being.  Namely, the board does not want to subject women in their 40s to “unnecessary imaging tests” and “unnecessary . . . biopsies” and “inconvenience.”  The board doesn’t seem to dispute the fact that breast cancer is frequently diagnosed in women in their 40s.  Rather, the board seems to be saying that not enough women in their 40s are diagnosed to justify the necessity of mammograms, so to avoid the psychological strain of having mammograms, let’s just do away with them altogether until you’re in an even higher risk group.  Well, I think that the members of this esteemed board (none of whom, by the way, are oncologists), can suck it.  When I’m 40, if I want to endure the psychological turmoil of having my boobs pressed like a panini so I can avoid death by breast cancer, I’m going to do it.  I understand there are false positives.  My damn doctor has told me about the risk of false positives.  I can handle that.  You know what my mental health cannot handle?  Waiting until I’m 50 to get a mammogram and hoping that the cancer has not already afflicted my boobs (or lymph nodes—don’t forget those, ladies), like it has hundreds of thousands of women before me in their 40s.  Alternatively, my mental health can’t handle my insurance company quoting your recommendation and rejecting my claim because my mammogram is medically “unnecessary.”

So for the esteemed 16 members of this board, sleep easy knowing that millions of women (and their boobs) think you suck, but at least the insurers love you.

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Mr. Awesome Has Awesomely Tweeted His Awesomeness!

Oh.  My.  God.  The incomparable Neil Patrick Harris (NPH, Doogie Howser, Barney Stinson, sperm donor for my future spawn) has just joined Twitter.  I am following his feed, because, in my delusional world, being an NPH follower means that he’s actually my friend.  At some point, NPH will tweet that he’s having coffee, or reading the newspaper.  When that happens, I too will enjoy a cup of coffee, or read a newspaper (or news equivalent like US Weekly), so that I can share in a daily activity with my new best friend.

I need a nickname for my new best friend.  I’m going to call him Mr. Awesome (with a wink).

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Filed under Plea to NPH

Adventures of the Struggling Writer — Day One

I’ve been woefully delinquent in my blog postings.  It’s been a busy few months—packing up belongings, moving across the country, and then embarking upon a globe-trotting tour complete with a near pick-pocketing experience in which yours truly willed herself from sticking a fist up the perpetrator’s throat and a knee into the perpetrator’s crotch—now that I’ve somewhat settled in the city by the Bay, it’s time to resume my pleas to NPH and Tina Fey.

I asked myself:  How can I place myself into a position where I can fully comprehend what it feels like to be a writer?  And then, it dawned upon me.  Actors better themselves in their craft by fully submerging themselves in a particular role.  I must better my craft by becoming what most writers are:  struggling and unemployed.

So today, my adventures took me to Chinatown, where flocks of mostly Cantonese-speaking Chinese people flood the streets in an all-out, cheap grocery shopping assault.  I navigated my way through the crowds, making sure to absorb the literary and comedic fodder around me.  Seeking respite from the human storm, I walked into a somewhat empty fish store, where soon-to-be eaten crabs and lobsters were clawing in tanks, likely unaware of their fate.  The crustaceans attempted to claw at each other, made futile by the rubber bands rendering their claws impotent.  I began to ponder various plots involving the human equivalent of such helplessness . . .

Suddenly, a giant turtle started climbing up the side of its enclosure and fell over backwards, creating a ginormous splash, leaving my exposed leg covered with not one, not two, but three nasty drops of turtle water.  I squealed in fright and jumped in shock, only to find that the once-empty store had become filled with patrons—all of whom were staring at me as if I had walked in with the plague (or SARS, I was in Chinatown).  I immediately ran out of the store, thereby ending today’s adventure.

Ahhh, the life of a struggling writer.  Tina and/or NPH—how could you not want to hire me after what I’ve just been through?

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Filed under Discover Me, Plea to NPH, Plea to Tina Fey