Category Archives: Humor

Gastropoda Gold

How did I not know that people are using snail mucin on their skin?
I have SO many questions, from extraction methods to who on this garden grub green earth thought of this? Seriously, I want to know who looked at a cute little snail, plodding along, minding its business, and said, “OMG, would you look at that glowing complexion! I say there, Snail, your complexion is flawless, what’s your secret?”

I might imagine some famished ancestor noticing a bird chowing down on a snail and saying, “Move over, Bub!”and grabbing anything that didn’t kill the animal. Hunger can make otherwise unappealing comestibles seem doable. Go forward a millennia, add butter and garlic, and you’ve got a desirable protein, not merely something pragmatic.

So maybe someone noticed that cooks who prepared escargot had particularly lovely hands that looked youthful. In busy kitchens among cooks whose hands are subject to abrasions, nicks, and burns: that would be noticeable. But I’m just creating a scene born of my need to know how such an inconceivable item is now promoted as the beauty product of the year.

Having lived in a shell-less cave, I’ve been snail mucinless this entire lifetime and I am hurt to realized that not only have I been deprived, but people who I thought of as friends were withholding vital information that could have preserved my youthful glow. Instead, I’m another victim of physics- a shriveled hag, encased in a wrinkly skin bag. And why? Not because it is a side effect of the natural passage of time, but because no one cared enough to tell me that inside that shell-house that they carry on their backs, snails have wee, tiny labs where they’re turning what we previously thought of as their yukky secretions, into pure gold, extracted from desperate consumers under the spell of the multi-billion dollar marketing of an aesthetic illusion.

I can only hope that the snails have lawyered up and are being rewarded. That unlike others, they won’t become victims of their innate talents, exploited and discarded by another heartless human industry.

Perhaps slime really is ultimately the perfect product and metaphor for our age.

Update: “Stressed snails produce slime, however sometimes machines are designed to be kind of like a spa for snails, using a secret spray to pleasure them which also triggers them to secrete more slime. Then they are left in a dark room on top of mesh so that as they scoot around the slime drips through the mesh and can be collected in a tray below them.”

Thanks to Flaky Biscuits Press for the above information.
I’m glad to learn that they’re not killed for it, and if they’re being pleasured in the process, so much the better. I don’t want any stress or depression slime on my wrinkles😉 (Not sure that ejaculation slime is any less dubious, but it’s better, LOL.)

Anjana’s Guide to a Better Life and Society (in no particular order)


Everybody should have to serve and work the line in a restaurant; teach a class; baby sit; work the register (old school, requiring basic arithmetic skills); write a formal letter; clean a kitchen & bathroom (baseboards
included); create something useable/beautiful from scratch; repair/mend something; work in a human or animal shelter/soup kitchen/hospital; spend time with people of a different generation, speak with (not only “to”) a person/people they perceive as “less than” themselves and would otherwise never approach; dance/sing/play for 15 minutes each day; spend time in the natural world without unnecessary equipment or noise; be kind to someone every day; actively defend the rights of the poor, disenfranchised, minorities, women, elderly, children, animals, nature; enjoy and take care of your body and senses; occasionally (knees permitting) jump rope; witness/assist in a birth and a death; vote or change the system through creation, not destruction; skip (while holding hands when possible); learn a new language or skill outside of your comfort zone; drive a cab in NYC; swim; spend 48 hrs incarcerated or in a senior care facility, or in a mental health facility; grow food and flowers; consider your connection to the living world every day; have your social & political life in alignment; reduce/eliminate waste. Be kind.

By Anjana Mebane-Cruz, PhD

July 7, 2015

Muchas Gracias

Thanksgiving can be complicated for any number of reasons: being of indigenous descent and knowing what really happened, having a difficult or even an abusive family, or no family or friends, etc.
I’m descended from people who celebrated multiple days of thanksgiving, not only the fall harvest, and I grew up with a Southern mother from a “mixed” family, who spent a great amount of time and energy preparing wonderful food to be shared with loved ones, even while ensuring that we didn’t buy into the story spread by the colonizers.
Any day you are fortunate enough to be surrounded by loved ones and have food to share is a day to give thanks. If you also have health and music, you are a person of great wealth. All of this plus a roof over your heads and no bombs going off? You hit the Lottery of Life!

Appreciate that and take a moment to acknowledge that a too large percentage of people to whom we are all connected are not as lucky. And make no mistake about this: it is luck! Misfortune knows no boundaries. We know this innately, but instead of creating a fear of the unfortunate, let us reach out in compassion. If you pray, include them, if you have money or time, make a donation.
Because at the heart of all thanksgivings is connection, compassion, and sharing. It’s about community.
Thanks to my beloved son and his family who’ve taken care of me through two very recent surgeries and the past 2+ horrific years of grief. And thanks to my extended family, both kin and kith, for the laughs, kindnesses, and understanding.

And I’ll now say something most have never heard me say:
May you all be blessed: bendiciones, mis amigx.
Oh, and please eat something yummy in my name 💕😉💕

🎉 New Holiday Proposal

I hereby propose that every January 20 is declared a National Day of Bernie. We shall post memes, eat celebratory foods, wrap up in our warmest clothing, including ritual mittens (preferably hand knit by sweet grammar school teachers.)

An addressed manila envelope shall be one of the ritual tools and held throughout the ceremony. A symbolic sparrow/Sankofa may be placed in front of the participant.

Celebrants will sit on metal folding chairs with arms folded until the Parade of 1 Percenters begins, at which point a chorus of “Pay your taxes”; Medicare for All; and “Get off my lawn”

Following the parade and shouting, celebrants should put away their chairs and rush to the Post Office (USPS only- we support the postal workers, a large percentage of whom are military veterans. However, we can consider bringing signs and standing in front of mail companies owned by the 2% and that aren’t unionized/don’t pay a livable wage.)

Following the public rituals, people will return to their homes to eat the traditional foods that can include deli foods, lox, maybe a nice brisket for sandwiches, etc. (Various other “soul foods” of the world are absolutely to be enjoyed as this is a non-xenophobic holiday celebrating our indigenous and international roots)

Grievances may be aired throughout the day and should include the ritual hand gestures. The holiday is ended with a glass of water and bicarbonate of soda or a cup of hot ginger-honey tea.

Sainthood Not Required

This was inspired about two weeks ago by a friend who seemed to want to control my memories. I think it’s pretty common, but it rubs me the wrong way. I understand not allowing outright lies or even disrespect, but no matter how close we are to folks, we know them differently than do others.

I’m sure my dubious reputation as a relatively friendly, fairly feisty, determined-to-be curmudgeonly crank is in no danger, but I want you to promise me that after I’m dead, you will not forget those contrasts in my personality. I promise that I will haunt you if you try to cover me with false ideas of perfectionism.

Don’t diminish me by glossing over my less than wonderful traits: I worked hard to learn how to speak up for myself, to curse, and to embrace anger. I like my sometimes twisted humor and have no desire to be portrayed in a one dimensional, sanctified way. I don’t want to be silenced in life and I don’t want the silence of the tomb to be the end of the complex human that I will have been. I can accept that I might be entirely forgotten- I’ve done nothing that rates immortality- just don’t make me over, for however long my name conjures up a picture in anyone’s mind. Enjoy the contradictory stories and opinions: consensus is not required, I changed over my lifetime and treated various people differently. I am as I can/should be.

My mistakes are mine

My struggle remains real

It took many years for me to recognize the inherent violence in perfectionism and ideologies of “sweetness” and being “good” that are thrust most particularly upon women, but just as damagingly, on the various subaltern peoples in societies that hold fast to the notion that we are inferior and must therefore strive harder to be better. It is a dehumanizing concept that supports racism and the institutionalized oppression of the many people who are literally beaten into simplistic characterizations, whether it be the “thug” or the “model minority.” Every stereotype is a diminishment of the complexities of human lives and a deterrent to human be-ing.

So have the laughs remembering the stupid things I did (please never forget jumping from a horse at a fairly high speed or crossing streams by swinging from vines in Dominica- I did that!) or the petty, snarky (yet hopefully witty) comments. Remember the failure to sometimes be there in some way when I might have been needed; the (many) times I ditched social events in favor of solitude. Maybe I’ve helped a few people, certainly I’ve hurt some. I hope I’ve been kind more often than not: I admire gentle souls and see the immaturity in my own restless, sometimes thoughtless spirit. I abhor liars, phonies, and respectability politics, but respect good bullshit, a well told story, and politeness. I’ve been blessed to have a couple of friends who’ve loved me enough to “pull my coattails” when I’ve gotten too narrowly focused or have been just plain wrong, and I can only hope that they’ll outlive me and keep anyone inclined to whitewash my memory from spoiling the party or trading in real memories for Disneyfied bull. Don’t try to control the way others who knew me saw me: they have their stories, their own relationships. But thanks for wanting to come to my defense, I appreciate the love.

I want my life to reflect my growth, my human be-coming, and memories of me should do no less. If you were lucky enough to have had the Anjana Experience, accept no substitute!

#Popeye ain’t got nothing on me.

PS I do expect to be around for another twenty years, so please don’t get freaked out and call me or start eulogizing me now. Respect the rant for what it is!