http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20061215/ap_en_tv/people_rosie_o_donnell_12
Oh my good freakin’ grief. And yet, also, like cosmic justice. OK, I’m getting ahead of myself and am incoherent.
So, for those of you who’d rather skip the “news” article, Rosie O’Donnell recently joked on “The View” about how Danny DiVito’s drunk visit to the show probably made global news. Rather than say this (as I just did) in a boring way, she chose figurative humor—go figure, as she’s a comedienne.
Well, guess what? This offended people and now Rosie is under fire to render the exact apology formula to soothe the souls tortured by her shocking display of cultural insensitivity. But, here’s the thing, she was not making fun of Chinese people…she was making fun of those of us who don’t speak Chinese.
We all—by now—know Asian languages (or any languages we do not, ourselves, speak) are valid languages spoken by intelligent and valid people with rich histories, personalities and perspectives. I mean, duh. However, when one’s ear and brain do not comprehend the language, one is left with the general sounds of the language. To our English-only ears, newscasts from China pretty much sound like O’Donnell’s silly interpretation.
Because they sound like that to our ears does not imply that we truly believe they are saying “ching chong ching chong” or that we believe they are not saying anything. It just means we are lazy dunderheads who do not have the time or inclination to learn foreign languages. It also means that other languages sound funny when we do not, ourselves, speak them; especially when those languages insert names and/or words we are familiar with.
I’m sure that English sounds funny to people who do not speak it and I’m sure that non-English speakers can generate some sort of phonetic gibberish to mimic what English must sound like to them. The thing is, I’d find that funny. Bring it on. I’m totally curious how a non-English speaker would phonetically point fun at English.
Yeah, yeah, I imagine the “ching chong” thing has been used to mock others. Most words have been used to mock others. However, I doubt O’Donnell had mean intentions and I seriously wish people would settle down and consider intentions before getting all lathered up.
Ironically, O’Donnell herself presented as an offended party regarding the Clay Aiken/Kelly Rippa spat. For those of you who have way better things to do than follow the drama of daytime television, Rippa, pissed about Aiken covering her mouth with his hands while attempting to shut her up so he could participate in an interview, said something about “…I don’t know where your hands have been…” To O’Donnell, this clearly represented a homophobic remark and she spouted off about it on “The View.”
Of course, Rippa denied this and pointed out that it’s cold and flu season.
If O’Donnell can interpret Rippa’s statement as homophobic—even though Aiken hasn’t come out as gay—I guess it’s fair that assorted Chinese-Americans may be offended by “ching chong ching chong.”
I mean, really, let’s all be offended and demand apologies. Being offended is definitely “in.” I’m offended, he’s offended, she’s offended, they’re offended…wouldn’t you like to be offended too?
Monday, December 18, 2006
Thursday, December 07, 2006
On Lies and Christmas Spirit...
Papa Elf: Well, silly as it sounds, a lot of people down south don't believe in Santa Claus.
Buddy the Elf: What?! Well, who do they think puts all their toys under the tree?
Papa Elf: Well, there's a rumor floating around that, uh, that the parents do it.
Buddy the Elf: That's... that's ridiculous. I mean, parents couldn't do that all in one night. What about Santa's cookies? I suppose parents eat them, too?
Papa Elf: Yeah, I, uh, I... I know,
~ Bob Newhart and Will Ferrell in Elf
My child is eight and still fervently believes in Santa Claus. She believes in him so strongly that she engages in heated debates with her school mates about his existence verses the existence of God—who she does not believe in. They argue for God, she argues for Santa and all use the same sketchy data and circular reasoning used by anyone to prove the existence of an all powerful and knowing entity who doesn’t just, like, show up and say, “Hi.”
I’d expected her to come to some more, ah, mature conclusions about Santa by now or at least make some connections I could utilize to segue her perceptions to “it’s the spirit of Santa that’s important…” But, no, she is still determined that a friendly, large, whiskered, older gentleman has nothing better to do than spend his immortal life whipping elves into toy production and delivering them (the toys, not the elves) to every single household in the freakin’ world within the span of, loosely, 24 hours (assuming Santa arrives around midnight in whatever part of the world he’s in at the time…).
We’ve been content to indulge her beliefs until recently, when she said to her dad and me, out of the blue, “I know Santa exists because you would never lie to me.” Jim and I looked at each other, stunned. I mean, we had no words, no response, no segue. In the end, we opted for a subject change and non-verbally indicated to each other that we’d have a strategic planning session later on.
We are officially perplexed and at odds about this Santa situation. I’m honored that she trusts us and feel strongly that some sort of honest discussion about Santa must occur because I’d rather she hear it from us than find out on her own and distrust everything we tell her for the rest of her life; resulting in involvement with drugs, prostitution and crime…roaming the streets of Portland until she’s picked up by some insensitive cops or worse, ends up on social services.
Jim feels strongly that we should continue to perpetuate the Santa belief because Christmas will be more fun that way and he’d rather not also have to ruin the Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny, assorted other fairies, and the Great Pumpkin. Clearly, he does not see the implications, the potential for major psychological damage, the trust issues, the teachable moments… sigh…
We did not realize when we set out to parent a child within the Santa paradigm, that the eventual decision to reveal his reality could result in major marital disagreement. It all seemed so innocent and harmless. Since the “lie” comment, we’ve had many discussions, theories, scenarios, bottles of wine, but have yet to come to any conclusion…any plan.
I found out about Santa accidentally, on a Christmas morning, shortly after I’d turned seven. Late on Christmas Eve, I got up for the bathroom and heard weird electronic beeping sounds. Investigating, I peeked around the corner and saw my dad, amongst mounds of wrapping paper and boxes, on the floor of the living room, happily playing with the beeping object. I’ve never been a snoop and honorably retreated back to my bedroom when I’d realized that my parents were finishing their wrapping.
In the morning, as we opened our booty, my step-brother tackled a small gift labeled “From Santa.” He excitedly tore open a little electronic baseball game, turned it on and began to play it. To my shock, it emitted the very same electronic beeping sounds I’d heard the night before. I confessed my discovery and my parents launched into the “spirit of Santa” explanation; fessing up to the ruse. I recall handling it well and having no residual trust issues (at least none related to that subject).
Still, I’d never jumped to the initial conclusion that “Santa must be real because my parents would never lie to me.” Of course this could be because I’d caught my parents in numerous lies prior to the from-Santa-ball-game and really never had the expectation that I could trust them implicitly anyway.
Our child’s trust is both a testament to our basically good parenting and to our ability to lie effectively. What we currently lack is spin. So I imagine, prior to Christmas morning, my spouse and I will generate some satisfying and morally acceptable Santa explanation that teaches her the spirit of giving, perpetuates magical thinking, and covers our asses. Or we’ll just eat the cookies, spill some milk and play dumb as per usual. Either way.
Buddy the Elf: What?! Well, who do they think puts all their toys under the tree?
Papa Elf: Well, there's a rumor floating around that, uh, that the parents do it.
Buddy the Elf: That's... that's ridiculous. I mean, parents couldn't do that all in one night. What about Santa's cookies? I suppose parents eat them, too?
Papa Elf: Yeah, I, uh, I... I know,
~ Bob Newhart and Will Ferrell in Elf
My child is eight and still fervently believes in Santa Claus. She believes in him so strongly that she engages in heated debates with her school mates about his existence verses the existence of God—who she does not believe in. They argue for God, she argues for Santa and all use the same sketchy data and circular reasoning used by anyone to prove the existence of an all powerful and knowing entity who doesn’t just, like, show up and say, “Hi.”
I’d expected her to come to some more, ah, mature conclusions about Santa by now or at least make some connections I could utilize to segue her perceptions to “it’s the spirit of Santa that’s important…” But, no, she is still determined that a friendly, large, whiskered, older gentleman has nothing better to do than spend his immortal life whipping elves into toy production and delivering them (the toys, not the elves) to every single household in the freakin’ world within the span of, loosely, 24 hours (assuming Santa arrives around midnight in whatever part of the world he’s in at the time…).
We’ve been content to indulge her beliefs until recently, when she said to her dad and me, out of the blue, “I know Santa exists because you would never lie to me.” Jim and I looked at each other, stunned. I mean, we had no words, no response, no segue. In the end, we opted for a subject change and non-verbally indicated to each other that we’d have a strategic planning session later on.
We are officially perplexed and at odds about this Santa situation. I’m honored that she trusts us and feel strongly that some sort of honest discussion about Santa must occur because I’d rather she hear it from us than find out on her own and distrust everything we tell her for the rest of her life; resulting in involvement with drugs, prostitution and crime…roaming the streets of Portland until she’s picked up by some insensitive cops or worse, ends up on social services.
Jim feels strongly that we should continue to perpetuate the Santa belief because Christmas will be more fun that way and he’d rather not also have to ruin the Tooth Fairy, Easter Bunny, assorted other fairies, and the Great Pumpkin. Clearly, he does not see the implications, the potential for major psychological damage, the trust issues, the teachable moments… sigh…
We did not realize when we set out to parent a child within the Santa paradigm, that the eventual decision to reveal his reality could result in major marital disagreement. It all seemed so innocent and harmless. Since the “lie” comment, we’ve had many discussions, theories, scenarios, bottles of wine, but have yet to come to any conclusion…any plan.
I found out about Santa accidentally, on a Christmas morning, shortly after I’d turned seven. Late on Christmas Eve, I got up for the bathroom and heard weird electronic beeping sounds. Investigating, I peeked around the corner and saw my dad, amongst mounds of wrapping paper and boxes, on the floor of the living room, happily playing with the beeping object. I’ve never been a snoop and honorably retreated back to my bedroom when I’d realized that my parents were finishing their wrapping.
In the morning, as we opened our booty, my step-brother tackled a small gift labeled “From Santa.” He excitedly tore open a little electronic baseball game, turned it on and began to play it. To my shock, it emitted the very same electronic beeping sounds I’d heard the night before. I confessed my discovery and my parents launched into the “spirit of Santa” explanation; fessing up to the ruse. I recall handling it well and having no residual trust issues (at least none related to that subject).
Still, I’d never jumped to the initial conclusion that “Santa must be real because my parents would never lie to me.” Of course this could be because I’d caught my parents in numerous lies prior to the from-Santa-ball-game and really never had the expectation that I could trust them implicitly anyway.
Our child’s trust is both a testament to our basically good parenting and to our ability to lie effectively. What we currently lack is spin. So I imagine, prior to Christmas morning, my spouse and I will generate some satisfying and morally acceptable Santa explanation that teaches her the spirit of giving, perpetuates magical thinking, and covers our asses. Or we’ll just eat the cookies, spill some milk and play dumb as per usual. Either way.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
On Ambition and Failure...
OK, so that first bit of the novel I posted...? Yeah, like, that's all I've written... I mean, seriously, I haven't written another word. I don't even know what kind of bad news the counselor received because I only threw that in there because I read that characters need that sort of thing to keep the story going...like just writing about her experiences as a counselor would not be enough (I know...tell that to Erv Yalom...but still), she needs a dilemma...something that prods her off the course and takes her in a new direction...
The point is, I have not written another word and clearly I have failed at write a novel in a month. The general goal is to write 1667 words a day... I think the prologue I wrote is like 800 words... and it's crap. No, no... I can tell it's crap because I'm bored by it. So I've had little insensitive to continue to write boring crap; especially 1667 words a day of boring crap.
So there we are. However, I have gleaned some learning from this experience. 1) I do enjoy writing, but I'm far to literal to make shit up. I mean, I can blather on all day about my own experiences and perspectives; but to make up a whole world...a whole array of people I don't know...and make them interesting and full of activity and adventures? Ugh. And, even when I try to do this, I end up really writing about myself and people I've actually known and changing their names which is both risky and trite. 2) I have issues with commitment...at least commitment to things that bore me. Or maybe it's adult attention deficit. I can write short columns/blogs but not long crappy novels. 3) It's OK to give up. No, really, I follow through on lots of things so it's OK to admit that this challenge is one I'm going to let go. And, the truth is, I have no interest in running a marathon either... I'm more of a 5k kind of gal.
So there you have it. I admire those who do complete their novels and do see the value of doing it. Perhaps I will write a novel one day, when a story catches my fancy and I feel compelled to write it. Or not...
The point is, I have not written another word and clearly I have failed at write a novel in a month. The general goal is to write 1667 words a day... I think the prologue I wrote is like 800 words... and it's crap. No, no... I can tell it's crap because I'm bored by it. So I've had little insensitive to continue to write boring crap; especially 1667 words a day of boring crap.
So there we are. However, I have gleaned some learning from this experience. 1) I do enjoy writing, but I'm far to literal to make shit up. I mean, I can blather on all day about my own experiences and perspectives; but to make up a whole world...a whole array of people I don't know...and make them interesting and full of activity and adventures? Ugh. And, even when I try to do this, I end up really writing about myself and people I've actually known and changing their names which is both risky and trite. 2) I have issues with commitment...at least commitment to things that bore me. Or maybe it's adult attention deficit. I can write short columns/blogs but not long crappy novels. 3) It's OK to give up. No, really, I follow through on lots of things so it's OK to admit that this challenge is one I'm going to let go. And, the truth is, I have no interest in running a marathon either... I'm more of a 5k kind of gal.
So there you have it. I admire those who do complete their novels and do see the value of doing it. Perhaps I will write a novel one day, when a story catches my fancy and I feel compelled to write it. Or not...
Friday, November 03, 2006
On Fiction and Impossible Goals...
OK, I started the novel but I'm so far behind the target schedule (1667 words a day...) that I'm having serious doubts about my ability to complete the damn thing. Also, my brain is so literal that I'm having a terrible time firing up my imagination...
Still, I manged to crank out the following:
Agency (tentative title)
Prologue
The Donald Duck struck her first, followed by the purple bowler hat. She barely heard their introductions and embarassed confession that they'd left their checkbook at home. The duck and the hat demanded way more attention.
Denise and Jared presented themselves on a rainy Tuesday morning with high hopes that counseling could solve their problems. Jared reported that he suffered from chronic depression, sometimes psychotic depression, and Denise nodded vigorously in the chair beside him. Jared asserted that he’d done well with his medications and that his mental illness actually helped his artistic pursuits.
Denise’s nods slowed to a stop at that, she cocked her head and her face bricked into disapproval. “Well,” she injected, “but that time you thought you were Gandhi and glued all that dog hair to your truck…and I couldn’t get you to eat or come in and get warm…and you kept yelling at strangers that they had to join the revolution…”
“Yeah, “ he said softly, “it did get a little outta control that time…and Ralph had to drag me to the hospital…but I’m doing better now.”
The therapist glanced again at the large Donald Duck, dancing in tie-dye, across Denise’s breasts. “I like your shirt,” she said. To the therapist’s ears, it sounded trite and false; the sort of thing a beginning counselor would say to avoid getting too deep. She tried to justify it to herself, “These people have serious problems, I only just met them and I’m trying to build the relationship…” But she could recognize her own bullshit. The truth--that she had way too much wine last night, that her boyfriend had just been laid off, and that she really had to pee—reduced her to therapeutic uselessnss.
Denise’s face brightened, she leaned forward and said, “Oh thanks! I got it at Disneyland a couple weeks ago. We love Disney…love it ,love it. Right?” She looked at Jared for confirmation and caressed Donald’s left foot.
“Yeah, man, Disneyland’s awesome. We try to go a couple times a year…it’s like, at Disneyland, it’s all OK…man, all OK… I got this pin in the Space Mountain gift shop.” He pointed to his velvet hat and the therapist ducked forward to see the small pin on it. She lamely said, “Cool.”
Jared reached for Denise’s hand and they sat together proudly in the afterglow of amusement park memories. The therapist observed, “You both look happy.” She watched the emotions move over their faces; joy, fading to hesitation, consternation, confusion, tension and eventually resignation.
“Well,” Denise offered, “we have really good times together but we have some problems we’d like to work on.”’
“Yeah,” Jared sighed. “She doesn’t like sex.”
“That’s not true! I do, it’s just…”
“She says it hurts.”
“Yeah… He’s too big for me or I’m too small or something…”
The therapist glanced at the clock; dismayed to find out that only 15 minutes of the 50 minute session had passed and she already had mental images of these two creatures in the throws of passion.
“So, sex is a big issue right now in your relationship,” the therapist recapped.
“Yeah…and money.” Denise looked even more miserable.
Jared squirmed. “Now, that will get better when me and Ralp get our business off the ground… I told you it won’t be long, like maybe a month.”
Denise looked doubtful. “You said that three months ago but I’m the only one with the job and I have to pay for everything… I wish you could get a real job to tide us over. ”
“I can’t be a slave to the corporate world.” Jared looked at the therapist very seriously. “I’m like a caged animal…one that’s wounded and bites if people mess with it. I can’t work like that. That’s why I’m starting my own business.”
“Well, I don’t like my job either.” Denise turned to the therapist. “I work at the Walmart and it’s not like it’s my dream job.” Her face turned wistful, “I’d really like to go back to school…I wanna be a nurse.”
“Well, when our business takes off, you can go back to school.”
Denise slumped in her chair. The therapist suspected Denise had heard that before, many times.
“So,” the therapist spoke, “Sex, money… are there any other issues you hope to work on?” As if that’s not enough, the therapist thought to herself.
“That’s pretty much it.”
“Yep. Otherwise, we’re doing OK. Denise is great and I love her. I’ve never been with anyone this long before and we have a great time…but, you know, a man has needs…” Denise just took a breath and looked out the window.
The therapist discussed with them the semantics of the therapy process, fees, appointment times, and expectations. She could have gone deeper with them, tried harder, but she didn't have the energy today. At least she didn't give them a stupid homework assignment, like "pay attention to each time you feel your needs are not being met, write it down and bring it back for next session," that they probably wouldn't do and she'd probably forget to ask them about next time. She gave herself some credit.
She shook hands with them and sent them off for another week. Sex and money: A classic, timeless, solutionless struggle for couples the world over. The therapist yawned and locked the door behind her. As she walked down the hall, her cell phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number.
She flipped it open and gave her typical greeting, “Hi, this is Emma…”
The color escaped her face as she absorbed the worst news she’d ever received in her life.
Still, I manged to crank out the following:
Agency (tentative title)
Prologue
The Donald Duck struck her first, followed by the purple bowler hat. She barely heard their introductions and embarassed confession that they'd left their checkbook at home. The duck and the hat demanded way more attention.
Denise and Jared presented themselves on a rainy Tuesday morning with high hopes that counseling could solve their problems. Jared reported that he suffered from chronic depression, sometimes psychotic depression, and Denise nodded vigorously in the chair beside him. Jared asserted that he’d done well with his medications and that his mental illness actually helped his artistic pursuits.
Denise’s nods slowed to a stop at that, she cocked her head and her face bricked into disapproval. “Well,” she injected, “but that time you thought you were Gandhi and glued all that dog hair to your truck…and I couldn’t get you to eat or come in and get warm…and you kept yelling at strangers that they had to join the revolution…”
“Yeah, “ he said softly, “it did get a little outta control that time…and Ralph had to drag me to the hospital…but I’m doing better now.”
The therapist glanced again at the large Donald Duck, dancing in tie-dye, across Denise’s breasts. “I like your shirt,” she said. To the therapist’s ears, it sounded trite and false; the sort of thing a beginning counselor would say to avoid getting too deep. She tried to justify it to herself, “These people have serious problems, I only just met them and I’m trying to build the relationship…” But she could recognize her own bullshit. The truth--that she had way too much wine last night, that her boyfriend had just been laid off, and that she really had to pee—reduced her to therapeutic uselessnss.
Denise’s face brightened, she leaned forward and said, “Oh thanks! I got it at Disneyland a couple weeks ago. We love Disney…love it ,love it. Right?” She looked at Jared for confirmation and caressed Donald’s left foot.
“Yeah, man, Disneyland’s awesome. We try to go a couple times a year…it’s like, at Disneyland, it’s all OK…man, all OK… I got this pin in the Space Mountain gift shop.” He pointed to his velvet hat and the therapist ducked forward to see the small pin on it. She lamely said, “Cool.”
Jared reached for Denise’s hand and they sat together proudly in the afterglow of amusement park memories. The therapist observed, “You both look happy.” She watched the emotions move over their faces; joy, fading to hesitation, consternation, confusion, tension and eventually resignation.
“Well,” Denise offered, “we have really good times together but we have some problems we’d like to work on.”’
“Yeah,” Jared sighed. “She doesn’t like sex.”
“That’s not true! I do, it’s just…”
“She says it hurts.”
“Yeah… He’s too big for me or I’m too small or something…”
The therapist glanced at the clock; dismayed to find out that only 15 minutes of the 50 minute session had passed and she already had mental images of these two creatures in the throws of passion.
“So, sex is a big issue right now in your relationship,” the therapist recapped.
“Yeah…and money.” Denise looked even more miserable.
Jared squirmed. “Now, that will get better when me and Ralp get our business off the ground… I told you it won’t be long, like maybe a month.”
Denise looked doubtful. “You said that three months ago but I’m the only one with the job and I have to pay for everything… I wish you could get a real job to tide us over. ”
“I can’t be a slave to the corporate world.” Jared looked at the therapist very seriously. “I’m like a caged animal…one that’s wounded and bites if people mess with it. I can’t work like that. That’s why I’m starting my own business.”
“Well, I don’t like my job either.” Denise turned to the therapist. “I work at the Walmart and it’s not like it’s my dream job.” Her face turned wistful, “I’d really like to go back to school…I wanna be a nurse.”
“Well, when our business takes off, you can go back to school.”
Denise slumped in her chair. The therapist suspected Denise had heard that before, many times.
“So,” the therapist spoke, “Sex, money… are there any other issues you hope to work on?” As if that’s not enough, the therapist thought to herself.
“That’s pretty much it.”
“Yep. Otherwise, we’re doing OK. Denise is great and I love her. I’ve never been with anyone this long before and we have a great time…but, you know, a man has needs…” Denise just took a breath and looked out the window.
The therapist discussed with them the semantics of the therapy process, fees, appointment times, and expectations. She could have gone deeper with them, tried harder, but she didn't have the energy today. At least she didn't give them a stupid homework assignment, like "pay attention to each time you feel your needs are not being met, write it down and bring it back for next session," that they probably wouldn't do and she'd probably forget to ask them about next time. She gave herself some credit.
She shook hands with them and sent them off for another week. Sex and money: A classic, timeless, solutionless struggle for couples the world over. The therapist yawned and locked the door behind her. As she walked down the hall, her cell phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number.
She flipped it open and gave her typical greeting, “Hi, this is Emma…”
The color escaped her face as she absorbed the worst news she’d ever received in her life.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
On Marathons and Literary Genius....
http://www.nanowrimo.org/
Ooooo… it’s almost time to begin my first novel. I’ve never attempted to write one; primarily because I’ve never been able to commit to a plot, characters or even a genre long enough to make a novel out of my scattered fragments of imagination. If I couldn’t come up with the perfect novel, why bother?
Then I heard about National Novel Writing Month… and I read the website. The philosophy seems to be the writing equivalent of running a marathon…one you don’t expect to win but hope to finish…just to say you ran a marathon. It doesn’t matter if your writing is crap, if you ever publish the damn thing, or if it’s literary genius…The goal is writing 50,000 words in a month that—hopefully—resemble a short novel by the end.
Why do it? Here are my reasons. 1) I’d never do it otherwise due to my own fears, picky nature, and procrastination. 2) Freedom to write whatever I want…w/o worrying about perfection. 3) It’ll be good for me…character building and will prove to myself that I can write a novel.
So, my plan is to publish my writing on this blog as I go. I make no guarantees about quality or entertainment value and stress that it may just be total crap…but, hey, hand me a Dixie cup of water and clap as I run by…at least I'm doing it. Or, come along with me and write your own novel in a month. We can puke together at the end… or along the way…
Now, I’d better start thinking about the plot…characters…genre… Hmmm….
Ooooo… it’s almost time to begin my first novel. I’ve never attempted to write one; primarily because I’ve never been able to commit to a plot, characters or even a genre long enough to make a novel out of my scattered fragments of imagination. If I couldn’t come up with the perfect novel, why bother?
Then I heard about National Novel Writing Month… and I read the website. The philosophy seems to be the writing equivalent of running a marathon…one you don’t expect to win but hope to finish…just to say you ran a marathon. It doesn’t matter if your writing is crap, if you ever publish the damn thing, or if it’s literary genius…The goal is writing 50,000 words in a month that—hopefully—resemble a short novel by the end.
Why do it? Here are my reasons. 1) I’d never do it otherwise due to my own fears, picky nature, and procrastination. 2) Freedom to write whatever I want…w/o worrying about perfection. 3) It’ll be good for me…character building and will prove to myself that I can write a novel.
So, my plan is to publish my writing on this blog as I go. I make no guarantees about quality or entertainment value and stress that it may just be total crap…but, hey, hand me a Dixie cup of water and clap as I run by…at least I'm doing it. Or, come along with me and write your own novel in a month. We can puke together at the end… or along the way…
Now, I’d better start thinking about the plot…characters…genre… Hmmm….
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
On What Little Boys are Made Of...
From my husband’s recent email from Guangzhou, China:
Dinner was something called "Hot Pot" in a Szechwan style... (also got pictures) ... I could sum it up as fish head soup... but there was a lot more to it than that... you might have liked it.. but I really didn’t recognize any of the ingredients (well .. except the fish head) ... some were animal ... some were vegetable and some unknown... in fact, I asked the hostess if a certain ingredient was animal or vegetable... she said neither... :-o something looked suspiciously like tongue from its texture... and something else was identified as "part of beef".. but in the shape of fettuccini and looked like nothing I'd seen.... I'm pretty sure it had something to do with a cows digestive system. I took pictures.. which was acceptable because I said they were for my daughter... but really I just wanted to show you and get all freaked out about it later.... I found myself wishing I was blind.... and trying really hard not to imagine what each item might have been.... two eyeballs ended up on my plate and I was told it would be good for my eyesight if I had them..... of course I declined that... but I did dig into the fish brains because it seemed to be the choice cut and I didn’t want to offend. Also .. I ate all the weird veggies and stumbled into some cabbage... I was actually delighted to find cabbage...
Dinner was something called "Hot Pot" in a Szechwan style... (also got pictures) ... I could sum it up as fish head soup... but there was a lot more to it than that... you might have liked it.. but I really didn’t recognize any of the ingredients (well .. except the fish head) ... some were animal ... some were vegetable and some unknown... in fact, I asked the hostess if a certain ingredient was animal or vegetable... she said neither... :-o something looked suspiciously like tongue from its texture... and something else was identified as "part of beef".. but in the shape of fettuccini and looked like nothing I'd seen.... I'm pretty sure it had something to do with a cows digestive system. I took pictures.. which was acceptable because I said they were for my daughter... but really I just wanted to show you and get all freaked out about it later.... I found myself wishing I was blind.... and trying really hard not to imagine what each item might have been.... two eyeballs ended up on my plate and I was told it would be good for my eyesight if I had them..... of course I declined that... but I did dig into the fish brains because it seemed to be the choice cut and I didn’t want to offend. Also .. I ate all the weird veggies and stumbled into some cabbage... I was actually delighted to find cabbage...
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
On Heros and Uninterested Felines...
Save the cheerleader, save the world…
I’m hooked on the NBC show “Heroes” and have not enjoyed television this much since the “Bionic Woman” and “Emergency!.” I’d heard decent reviews before the show began and decided to set the ol’ DVR to record the show… you know, in case of boredom.
We watched the first couple of episodes and mostly enjoyed the Japanese Hiro…I mean, total bubble of internal joy every time he exclaimed, “I DID IT!!” in subtitles… but I had some ambivalence toward the rest of the show. I’d had a new episode waiting on my DVR and kept putting off watching it until, finally, I needed something to watch while working out. That one did it…I couldn’t wait to watch the next one and ultimately found myself oozing, “Awesome!!” to the cat (my only companion at the time) after the most recent episode. When I talk to the cat, it must be good.
Essentially, “Heroes” is a modern day superhero tale. Perhaps it is especially engaging for us children of the 70s who grew up with the superhero genre and crave the nostalgia of our youth. Not unlike the Bionic shows, “Heroes” manages to supply rich character development in addition to the fun of the superpower. All the characters are discovering their abilities, and ultimate purposes, while wrestling with life in general. Believe it or not…
My biggest fear is that the show will follow “Surface” into obscurity. If I spend this season seeking to understand how the indestructible cheerleader fits in to total world obliteration, watching alter ego porn girl (who bares a striking resemblance to Diana Krall) integrate, sympathizing with the mind reading cop…. Only to have NY go boom in the season cliffhanger and NBC cancel the show without any resolution… Oh man, let’s not even think about it. I’ll have a lot more to say to the cat if that happens.
NBC hasn’t exactly been its tip top self since it lost the super-sitcoms of yesteryear—well, and Anthony Edwards. Still, I’m impressed with its efforts to generate shows that provide imaginative storylines (not just “gritty” crime shows), engaging but not Hollywood perfect characters, and non-reality storytelling. Kudos, even if you are loosing money, NBC.
Unfortunately—and I’m only saying this because I’m a parent and I remember how much I adored my childhood heroes—“Heroes” is not appropriate for the youngin’s. Most of it is, but it has adult themes—mainly promiscuity/internet porn… I’d rather not explain that to my 8 year old… but also gore, violence and politicians. I mean, you know…
However, for us 70s kids, this show is—so far—heaven. A balance of good/evil, humor, suspense, personality, mystery, intelligence… it can go anywhere it has a mind to. After all, it’s dealing with space-time continuums, leaping tall buildings, ass-kicking mirror images…. Entertainment candy for those of us who are pretty darned sick of reality at the moment and relish some heroes to root for.
I think one can catch up—if you haven’t been watching it already—by watching episodes on the internet. Save the cheerleader, save the world…
I’m hooked on the NBC show “Heroes” and have not enjoyed television this much since the “Bionic Woman” and “Emergency!.” I’d heard decent reviews before the show began and decided to set the ol’ DVR to record the show… you know, in case of boredom.
We watched the first couple of episodes and mostly enjoyed the Japanese Hiro…I mean, total bubble of internal joy every time he exclaimed, “I DID IT!!” in subtitles… but I had some ambivalence toward the rest of the show. I’d had a new episode waiting on my DVR and kept putting off watching it until, finally, I needed something to watch while working out. That one did it…I couldn’t wait to watch the next one and ultimately found myself oozing, “Awesome!!” to the cat (my only companion at the time) after the most recent episode. When I talk to the cat, it must be good.
Essentially, “Heroes” is a modern day superhero tale. Perhaps it is especially engaging for us children of the 70s who grew up with the superhero genre and crave the nostalgia of our youth. Not unlike the Bionic shows, “Heroes” manages to supply rich character development in addition to the fun of the superpower. All the characters are discovering their abilities, and ultimate purposes, while wrestling with life in general. Believe it or not…
My biggest fear is that the show will follow “Surface” into obscurity. If I spend this season seeking to understand how the indestructible cheerleader fits in to total world obliteration, watching alter ego porn girl (who bares a striking resemblance to Diana Krall) integrate, sympathizing with the mind reading cop…. Only to have NY go boom in the season cliffhanger and NBC cancel the show without any resolution… Oh man, let’s not even think about it. I’ll have a lot more to say to the cat if that happens.
NBC hasn’t exactly been its tip top self since it lost the super-sitcoms of yesteryear—well, and Anthony Edwards. Still, I’m impressed with its efforts to generate shows that provide imaginative storylines (not just “gritty” crime shows), engaging but not Hollywood perfect characters, and non-reality storytelling. Kudos, even if you are loosing money, NBC.
Unfortunately—and I’m only saying this because I’m a parent and I remember how much I adored my childhood heroes—“Heroes” is not appropriate for the youngin’s. Most of it is, but it has adult themes—mainly promiscuity/internet porn… I’d rather not explain that to my 8 year old… but also gore, violence and politicians. I mean, you know…
However, for us 70s kids, this show is—so far—heaven. A balance of good/evil, humor, suspense, personality, mystery, intelligence… it can go anywhere it has a mind to. After all, it’s dealing with space-time continuums, leaping tall buildings, ass-kicking mirror images…. Entertainment candy for those of us who are pretty darned sick of reality at the moment and relish some heroes to root for.
I think one can catch up—if you haven’t been watching it already—by watching episodes on the internet. Save the cheerleader, save the world…
Thursday, October 19, 2006
On Bitches and Marketing...
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ucac/20061019/cm_ucac/ojtrialsforterrorists
But, that aside, does she have a point about anything? Probably.
She’s essentially pissed because she feels terrorists and those who cavort with them are perhaps getting off easier than they should. Maybe they are… I don’t know and I don’t care because really none of that matters.
The hell you say? Yes. It’s all crap. It isn’t like other terrorists look at the poor bastards at Gitmo and say, reasonably, “Gee, it looks like Saiib and Jsmahhlsammal are having a pretty rough time in that detention center. I would not like to have such a rough time myself, therefore I will cease my terrorist activities to prevent myself from a similar fate.” It doesn’t matter if they are tortured, punished, taunted, overfed, underfed… it will not change the detainees and it will not change the would-be terrorists. It also does not matter if we treat them well and give them all the creature comforts we can imagine. Nothing we do to them matters.
However, talking about what we do or don’t do…arguing about how we should or shouldn’t treat them… making a big deal out of them at all… That matters. Why? Because it makes us look very very stupid to the other countries. It looks like we can’t get our act together. We’ve become the trailer trash of the world…who yell and scream and blabbidy blab blab about all of our private business.
I don’t get why our politicians,
http://www.loc.gov/exhibits/treasures/trm139.html
Case in point, the “Speak softly and carry a big stick,” theory. We can be pissed off, we can be scared, we can be determined, we can be buttheads… but we can keep all that to ourselves and strategically do what we need to do. Be cool like Fonzie.
But no, everyone goes on and on…blah blah blah axis of evil… blah blah blah war is bad… blah blah blah stay the course…blah blah blah it’s Bush’s fault… blah blah blah it’s gays… The rest of the world is looking at us shaking their collective heads… not because we have prisoners at Gitmo and not because we’re fighting in
Our government needs a Secretary of Marketing/PR and better get one soon. WWIII will be a war of public opinion…mark my words.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
On Vegas and Recovery...
So we’re back from Vegas and I feel as if somebody hit me with a giant bat. I saw a t-shirt in the airport gift shop that said, “Las Vegas: What was I thinking?” I thought, “Amen.”
I mean, it’s a fun place to an extent and like some sort of forgiving foster parent, Vegas accepts all sorts of children….Everyone fits in Vegas.
When I look back on our experience, or when somebody asks me what we did there, I realize that our primary activity—for 3 days—involved walking around looking at hotels. I mean, the hotels are impressive, yes and all have their own personalities. This is interesting and free entertainment, but man, I’m sure time could have been used more wisely…even if only to sit by the pool with a giant fruit beverage.
Occasionally we’d walk to a hotel for a purpose. We deliberately watched the fountains at the Bellagio several times and stood amazed as they popped off water with the force of fireworks. We went to New York, New York to visit a sing-along piano bar—probably the highlight of the trip. We went to Ballys to see Jubilee, an old-school Vegas show involving matter-of-fact topless women, rhinestones and guys on ribbons. We went to the Venetian to eat some Italian food and ride the Gondolas (which go like 2 miles an hour but you have to wear seatbelts)…I tried grappa.
Otherwise, we generally divided our time between looking at hotels and deciding what to eat. We did a little gambling and I lost a whopping $7. We never did play at any of the tables, where the minimum bets exceeded our risk comfort zone, but did goof off with the penny and nickel slots.
The weird thing about the place is the lack of seating. I sort had the image of parking ourselves in some hotel lobbies for people watching, but realized quickly that you pretty much have to be a paying customer in a bar or restaurant to find a seat. Vegas does not want you to stay in one place for long.
I do not recommend Quark’s Bar at the Hilton… though the Romulan Ale is worth having for obvious reasons…the food is overpriced cafeteria fare. However, I do recommend Ellis Island for both Karaoke and cheap but decent 24-hr food—and breakfast anytime.
We made it to the Dam and took the Dam tour—which has been, unfortunately, shortened after 9/11 for security reasons. And, I told my mom we went and she informed me that a couple years after the Hoover-Fuck incident, she and Dad went back and toured the thing. She regaled me with the parts of the tour no longer available. Great. She got to go on the full tour and I get “Look, generators… Look tunnel… OK, end of tour.” Figures.
The best part of the trip happened in the desert at the Valley of Fire State Park. Essentially a poor-man’s Zion/Bryce Canyon but beautiful. We arrived before sunset and wandered among the red rock formations until we could hardly see them.
I’m glad to know what Vegas is all about… but I’m also glad to be home. Vegas…what was I thinking??
I mean, it’s a fun place to an extent and like some sort of forgiving foster parent, Vegas accepts all sorts of children….Everyone fits in Vegas.
When I look back on our experience, or when somebody asks me what we did there, I realize that our primary activity—for 3 days—involved walking around looking at hotels. I mean, the hotels are impressive, yes and all have their own personalities. This is interesting and free entertainment, but man, I’m sure time could have been used more wisely…even if only to sit by the pool with a giant fruit beverage.
Occasionally we’d walk to a hotel for a purpose. We deliberately watched the fountains at the Bellagio several times and stood amazed as they popped off water with the force of fireworks. We went to New York, New York to visit a sing-along piano bar—probably the highlight of the trip. We went to Ballys to see Jubilee, an old-school Vegas show involving matter-of-fact topless women, rhinestones and guys on ribbons. We went to the Venetian to eat some Italian food and ride the Gondolas (which go like 2 miles an hour but you have to wear seatbelts)…I tried grappa.
Otherwise, we generally divided our time between looking at hotels and deciding what to eat. We did a little gambling and I lost a whopping $7. We never did play at any of the tables, where the minimum bets exceeded our risk comfort zone, but did goof off with the penny and nickel slots.
The weird thing about the place is the lack of seating. I sort had the image of parking ourselves in some hotel lobbies for people watching, but realized quickly that you pretty much have to be a paying customer in a bar or restaurant to find a seat. Vegas does not want you to stay in one place for long.
I do not recommend Quark’s Bar at the Hilton… though the Romulan Ale is worth having for obvious reasons…the food is overpriced cafeteria fare. However, I do recommend Ellis Island for both Karaoke and cheap but decent 24-hr food—and breakfast anytime.
We made it to the Dam and took the Dam tour—which has been, unfortunately, shortened after 9/11 for security reasons. And, I told my mom we went and she informed me that a couple years after the Hoover-Fuck incident, she and Dad went back and toured the thing. She regaled me with the parts of the tour no longer available. Great. She got to go on the full tour and I get “Look, generators… Look tunnel… OK, end of tour.” Figures.
The best part of the trip happened in the desert at the Valley of Fire State Park. Essentially a poor-man’s Zion/Bryce Canyon but beautiful. We arrived before sunset and wandered among the red rock formations until we could hardly see them.
I’m glad to know what Vegas is all about… but I’m also glad to be home. Vegas…what was I thinking??
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
On Birthdays and Dams...
Today is my birthday (at the risk of revealing personal information that could result in identity theft or other heinous scary things that I can’t even imagine but will hear about via the media eventually because they are out to scare the shit out of every American until we are so tired of being scared that apathy really sets in and we throw our collective media devices and Katie Couric into the Boston Harbor…)
I’m halfway to 68 and I don’t care who knows it. It’s all relative anyway. I’m the Goldilocks of aging. At work, I’m about the only female who still menstruates so people naturally don’t take me seriously. In Mazatlan, like 4 years ago, I felt like a fat dinosaur. Among my friends, I feel just right…Sophisticated and wise and yet young enough to appreciate sarcasm.
These be the good old days ~ Ziggy Marley
Today I’m at work and my perfunctory birthday card (signed by everyone whether they know me or not, with a variety of the same statements everyone makes on every office birthday card, “Have a Good One. Best Wishes. You’re Sweet. Enjoy Yourself,” and of course, “Happy Birthday” ad nauseam) is displayed prominently over my flat screen. I’m touched. I wasn’t sure there were enough emails about whose birthdays are in October that they’d remember. Them’s good people.
My co-workers also pitched in to get me a little travel kit involving soaps. This is a thoughtful gift (even if somebody did bring it home from a hotel in Wisconsin, didn’t use it and decided to pass it to me). It’s the thought that counts; and think they did, because I’m on my way to Vegas, baby, tomorrow afternoon and could use a variety of soaps; especially exfoliating soaps. There’s no such thing as too much soap, I always say.
You have to say Vegas baby, when you talk about going there. It just feels good. Not “Las Vegas,” or “Vegas,” but “Vegas comma baby.” I have only visited Vegas as a child and frankly I confuse those memories with those of Reno. Somewhere in there are hamburgers and a cheap stuffed monkey named Fred, won at Circus Circus; along with trying to figure out where kids were allowed and not allowed. I vaguely see myself positioned just outside a velvet rope watching my mother on the opposite side of the rope at a nickel slot machine.
The most vivid childhood memory of Vegas specifically, baby, is not Vegas itself but Hoover Dam; and not the Dam itself but the argument my parents had about whether to go on the damn tour of the Dam. This monumental parental event took place in a Winnebago in front of my step-brother, myself and our wiener dog, Gretchen.
Essentially my mom is scared of heights, enclosed spaces, turbines and anything involving fun and adventure (or so it seemed to my young self, sitting in the RV hoping with all my might that I might get to go into that incredible edifice and understand the dynamics of hydroelectric power…or at least ride a really cool elevator…whatever). Essentially my dad is scared of doing anything without my mom, so when Mom decided she would not participate and would “be fine here in the motor home, reading with the dog…” my dad’s thoughtful response was, “well then, none of us will go.” What followed is relatively blurry but involved lots of huffing, circular reasoning, passive aggressive statements, martyrdom, and most significantly my mom saying “Fuck” in front of us for the first time.
I, of course, burst into tears. Who was this woman?? I didn’t even know her anymore. I didn’t know whose side to be on. Hers, because she said she wanted to stay behind and would be ok if we went ahead… or his, because even though she said this, it could have just been code for “I’m only saying I’ll be fine and that you can go ahead but really I don’t want you to go but I’m going to pretend like it’s ok and make you all feel really guilty anyway.” Or hers, because she really didn’t care if we went our not and would have been fine but my dad is a stubborn fart who’d rather ruin everybody’s fun than just go see the stupid thing without my mother. In the end, none of us went any farther into the dam than the bathroom at the visitor center.
Truly, it made no sense to me at the time. And though I’m still perplexed by the actual nature of the disagreement or the logic on either side of it, I can’t hold it against them because I’ve had more than my fair share of ridiculous arguments with my spouse. Plus, it’s a really fun memory to rehash and never let them live down and it brought the word “fuck” into the family. It’s fodder for years of ribbing and cussing.
So, Vegas, baby. The strip, the food, the drink, the shows, the Dam… I’m on my way tomorrow and not looking back. Hedonism take me away. Happy fucking birrrthdayyyy tooo meeeeee…..
I’m halfway to 68 and I don’t care who knows it. It’s all relative anyway. I’m the Goldilocks of aging. At work, I’m about the only female who still menstruates so people naturally don’t take me seriously. In Mazatlan, like 4 years ago, I felt like a fat dinosaur. Among my friends, I feel just right…Sophisticated and wise and yet young enough to appreciate sarcasm.
These be the good old days ~ Ziggy Marley
Today I’m at work and my perfunctory birthday card (signed by everyone whether they know me or not, with a variety of the same statements everyone makes on every office birthday card, “Have a Good One. Best Wishes. You’re Sweet. Enjoy Yourself,” and of course, “Happy Birthday” ad nauseam) is displayed prominently over my flat screen. I’m touched. I wasn’t sure there were enough emails about whose birthdays are in October that they’d remember. Them’s good people.
My co-workers also pitched in to get me a little travel kit involving soaps. This is a thoughtful gift (even if somebody did bring it home from a hotel in Wisconsin, didn’t use it and decided to pass it to me). It’s the thought that counts; and think they did, because I’m on my way to Vegas, baby, tomorrow afternoon and could use a variety of soaps; especially exfoliating soaps. There’s no such thing as too much soap, I always say.
You have to say Vegas baby, when you talk about going there. It just feels good. Not “Las Vegas,” or “Vegas,” but “Vegas comma baby.” I have only visited Vegas as a child and frankly I confuse those memories with those of Reno. Somewhere in there are hamburgers and a cheap stuffed monkey named Fred, won at Circus Circus; along with trying to figure out where kids were allowed and not allowed. I vaguely see myself positioned just outside a velvet rope watching my mother on the opposite side of the rope at a nickel slot machine.
The most vivid childhood memory of Vegas specifically, baby, is not Vegas itself but Hoover Dam; and not the Dam itself but the argument my parents had about whether to go on the damn tour of the Dam. This monumental parental event took place in a Winnebago in front of my step-brother, myself and our wiener dog, Gretchen.
Essentially my mom is scared of heights, enclosed spaces, turbines and anything involving fun and adventure (or so it seemed to my young self, sitting in the RV hoping with all my might that I might get to go into that incredible edifice and understand the dynamics of hydroelectric power…or at least ride a really cool elevator…whatever). Essentially my dad is scared of doing anything without my mom, so when Mom decided she would not participate and would “be fine here in the motor home, reading with the dog…” my dad’s thoughtful response was, “well then, none of us will go.” What followed is relatively blurry but involved lots of huffing, circular reasoning, passive aggressive statements, martyrdom, and most significantly my mom saying “Fuck” in front of us for the first time.
I, of course, burst into tears. Who was this woman?? I didn’t even know her anymore. I didn’t know whose side to be on. Hers, because she said she wanted to stay behind and would be ok if we went ahead… or his, because even though she said this, it could have just been code for “I’m only saying I’ll be fine and that you can go ahead but really I don’t want you to go but I’m going to pretend like it’s ok and make you all feel really guilty anyway.” Or hers, because she really didn’t care if we went our not and would have been fine but my dad is a stubborn fart who’d rather ruin everybody’s fun than just go see the stupid thing without my mother. In the end, none of us went any farther into the dam than the bathroom at the visitor center.
Truly, it made no sense to me at the time. And though I’m still perplexed by the actual nature of the disagreement or the logic on either side of it, I can’t hold it against them because I’ve had more than my fair share of ridiculous arguments with my spouse. Plus, it’s a really fun memory to rehash and never let them live down and it brought the word “fuck” into the family. It’s fodder for years of ribbing and cussing.
So, Vegas, baby. The strip, the food, the drink, the shows, the Dam… I’m on my way tomorrow and not looking back. Hedonism take me away. Happy fucking birrrthdayyyy tooo meeeeee…..
Thursday, September 28, 2006
On Fashion and Spanish Pluck...
http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20060928/od_nm/witness_fashion1_dc_1
I don’t understand fashion. I mean, I have a grasp on how to assemble items of clothing to pass as presentable, but I’m sooo not sophisticated enough to appreciate the intricacies and drama of the runway. I’m only just beginning to comprehend that the “fashion industry” does not refer to a Wal-Mart sweatshop in Malaysia.
Quite honestly, I haven’t paid any attention until recently when Spain—in a crazy fit of concern for health and welfare, those bastards—decided to bar the underweight from the Madrid Fashion Week. From what little I understand of the situation, Spain had the thought that, perhaps, the push for freakishly thin models somehow damaged the models themselves and perhaps encouraged other young women to emulate famine. Go figure. So they decided to—not unlike sporting events baring athletes who use performance enhancers—ban ultra thin participants.
This has caused much uproar and bitterness—of course, because any change must always cause uproar and bitterness no matter what “industry” or demographic. The government of Canada could ban mustard gas and somebody, somewhere would be roaring and bitter. It’s just the way things are.
But the fashion leaders are especially upset because they believe strongly that their amazingly intricate and artful designs only look good on certain body frames; namely skeletons. Malnourished creatures are their canvas and they are not eager to expend extra fine fabrics on women who resemble, well, women.
I fail to grasp several things. 1) A woman with a Body Mass Index of 18 is pretty darned skinny. How can this standard possibly be a problem? 2) Who—besides the designers, the participant models, and pedophiles—possibly finds these walking-hangers attractive? How on earth did this trend become a standard of beauty? 3) How stupid do these fashion people think we are? Or are they merely delusional? It doesn’t take an analyst in a think-tank to figure out that eating disorders are a gargantuan part of the fashion industry. I, mean, like duh. 4) How come all the anorexia accused women say, “I eat a hamburger any time I want to,” as if that just wraps it up. OK, freakishly thin individual, you must not have any issues with eating because you clearly have a well-established relationship with hamburgers. Sorry to trouble you.
So, OK, should governments involve themselves with “industries” that thrive on abnormal thinness and influence young women to emulate this? Aren’t these folks consenting adults? Oh, wait, many of them are teen-agers as young as 14…13… Hmmm…
Ah well, as long as they eat hamburgers whenever they want to…
I don’t understand fashion. I mean, I have a grasp on how to assemble items of clothing to pass as presentable, but I’m sooo not sophisticated enough to appreciate the intricacies and drama of the runway. I’m only just beginning to comprehend that the “fashion industry” does not refer to a Wal-Mart sweatshop in Malaysia.
Quite honestly, I haven’t paid any attention until recently when Spain—in a crazy fit of concern for health and welfare, those bastards—decided to bar the underweight from the Madrid Fashion Week. From what little I understand of the situation, Spain had the thought that, perhaps, the push for freakishly thin models somehow damaged the models themselves and perhaps encouraged other young women to emulate famine. Go figure. So they decided to—not unlike sporting events baring athletes who use performance enhancers—ban ultra thin participants.
This has caused much uproar and bitterness—of course, because any change must always cause uproar and bitterness no matter what “industry” or demographic. The government of Canada could ban mustard gas and somebody, somewhere would be roaring and bitter. It’s just the way things are.
But the fashion leaders are especially upset because they believe strongly that their amazingly intricate and artful designs only look good on certain body frames; namely skeletons. Malnourished creatures are their canvas and they are not eager to expend extra fine fabrics on women who resemble, well, women.
I fail to grasp several things. 1) A woman with a Body Mass Index of 18 is pretty darned skinny. How can this standard possibly be a problem? 2) Who—besides the designers, the participant models, and pedophiles—possibly finds these walking-hangers attractive? How on earth did this trend become a standard of beauty? 3) How stupid do these fashion people think we are? Or are they merely delusional? It doesn’t take an analyst in a think-tank to figure out that eating disorders are a gargantuan part of the fashion industry. I, mean, like duh. 4) How come all the anorexia accused women say, “I eat a hamburger any time I want to,” as if that just wraps it up. OK, freakishly thin individual, you must not have any issues with eating because you clearly have a well-established relationship with hamburgers. Sorry to trouble you.
So, OK, should governments involve themselves with “industries” that thrive on abnormal thinness and influence young women to emulate this? Aren’t these folks consenting adults? Oh, wait, many of them are teen-agers as young as 14…13… Hmmm…
Ah well, as long as they eat hamburgers whenever they want to…
On Opera and Outrage…
“In non-news today, Muslims are outraged. Also, the sun rose at its usual time, and the Earth continued to turn on its axis in the customary fashion.” – Kathleen Parker/Washington Post Writers Group
http://www.nwherald.com/MainSection/local/291120244694037.php
In an effort to curb Muslim outrage, Berlin's Deutsche Opera recently cancelled its production of “Idomeneo.”
http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20060927/ts_nm/arts_religion_dc_3
According to the article, “The controversy centered on a scene in which King Idomeneo is shown on stage with the severed heads of Buddha, Jesus, Mohammad and the sea god Poseidon.” They figure if they go on with this production, they will offend Muslims who will, in turn, blow stuff up.
For some reason, they are not concerned about offending Buddhists, Pagans and Christians …
Oh, maybe that’s because Buddhists don’t blow stuff up and Christians rarely blow stuff up, but instead, they unleash televangelist talking-heads on the world. This may be worse then blowing stuff up, but I’m not sure. And Pagans? Well, they were pretty much wiped out by the Christians…
I’m no fan of opera, but even I see the value of artistic license and hate to see this sort of censorship. Score one point for the bullies. Yeah, bullies… that’s really it, isn’t it? “Terrorist” is an unfortunate moniker. These folks are just bullies in the world playground and we’d rather hand over our lunch money than stand up to them.
The problem extends beyond religion and art, however. The Yahoo article also points out, “Some analysts fear a climate is developing in which people are afraid to speak out publicly. In a speech to the annual conference of think-tank Oxford Analytica last week, its head, David Young, said political correctness posed a threat to free expression for journalists, politicians and academics alike.”
I say a climate has already developed in which people are afraid to speak out publicly. It doesn’t take “analysts” in "think tanks" to figure this out. Voices are silenced by violence, money, name-calling, social isolation, litigation, etc. Everyone can play the victim card and effectively end all other discourse. We have become very good at shutting each other up.
I love a good debate (much to the dismay of my friends), but this is a lost art. Everyone is too defensive, too quick to anger, too quick to dismiss the person posing the questions… It’s so much easier to call somebody a liberal, a conservative, a racist, a sexist…or to categorically blame figureheads…or to blow up stuff… than to engage in the details. People have strong beliefs but little accurate information; media bites and propaganda are weak fodder for arguments and generally crumble upon inspection. Also, it’s difficult to debate when issues are taken so personally; when emotions outweigh logic.
Mr. Spock, where are you?
So…solutions. I’m all out of them, sorry to say. But I bet we could find them somewhere… in Canada maybe, eh?
http://www.nwherald.com/MainSection/local/291120244694037.php
In an effort to curb Muslim outrage, Berlin's Deutsche Opera recently cancelled its production of “Idomeneo.”
http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20060927/ts_nm/arts_religion_dc_3
According to the article, “The controversy centered on a scene in which King Idomeneo is shown on stage with the severed heads of Buddha, Jesus, Mohammad and the sea god Poseidon.” They figure if they go on with this production, they will offend Muslims who will, in turn, blow stuff up.
For some reason, they are not concerned about offending Buddhists, Pagans and Christians …
Oh, maybe that’s because Buddhists don’t blow stuff up and Christians rarely blow stuff up, but instead, they unleash televangelist talking-heads on the world. This may be worse then blowing stuff up, but I’m not sure. And Pagans? Well, they were pretty much wiped out by the Christians…
I’m no fan of opera, but even I see the value of artistic license and hate to see this sort of censorship. Score one point for the bullies. Yeah, bullies… that’s really it, isn’t it? “Terrorist” is an unfortunate moniker. These folks are just bullies in the world playground and we’d rather hand over our lunch money than stand up to them.
The problem extends beyond religion and art, however. The Yahoo article also points out, “Some analysts fear a climate is developing in which people are afraid to speak out publicly. In a speech to the annual conference of think-tank Oxford Analytica last week, its head, David Young, said political correctness posed a threat to free expression for journalists, politicians and academics alike.”
I say a climate has already developed in which people are afraid to speak out publicly. It doesn’t take “analysts” in "think tanks" to figure this out. Voices are silenced by violence, money, name-calling, social isolation, litigation, etc. Everyone can play the victim card and effectively end all other discourse. We have become very good at shutting each other up.
I love a good debate (much to the dismay of my friends), but this is a lost art. Everyone is too defensive, too quick to anger, too quick to dismiss the person posing the questions… It’s so much easier to call somebody a liberal, a conservative, a racist, a sexist…or to categorically blame figureheads…or to blow up stuff… than to engage in the details. People have strong beliefs but little accurate information; media bites and propaganda are weak fodder for arguments and generally crumble upon inspection. Also, it’s difficult to debate when issues are taken so personally; when emotions outweigh logic.
Mr. Spock, where are you?
So…solutions. I’m all out of them, sorry to say. But I bet we could find them somewhere… in Canada maybe, eh?
Monday, September 25, 2006
On World Peace and Paradox...
From Yahoo AP News today:
“On NBC's "Meet the Press," also taped Friday and aired Sunday, Clinton told interviewer Tim Russert that the biggest problem confronting the world today is ‘the illusion that our differences matter more than our common humanity.’”
Wait a minute. “…the illusion that our differences matter more than our common humanity…” First off, did Clinton actually say that we should focus on our similarities rather than our differences? Second, this illusion he speaks of…
Whoa…I’m way ahead of myself. See, I’m a White child of the 70s and my parents (and TV culture) raised me to believe that, well, we should focus on our similarities rather than our differences. It didn’t matter that Willis and Arnold were Black and Mr. Drummond was White—what mattered was that they were a family (for its time, this show seemed pretty progressive). My well-meaning, liberal, parents told me “Skin color doesn’t matter, we’re all human.” I wonder if the words of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. influenced them in any way:
“I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”
They told me racism is bad, I should treat everybody equally and I should not judge anyone based on color, religion, disability, age, sexual orientation, etc. My dad bought a “Love See No Color” t-shirt from an African American street vendor. I thought I had it figured out.
Until I took women’s studies classes at the local University at the ripe old age of 27 and found out I’m racist because I believe that color doesn’t matter. They accused me (and other’s like me) of thinking of non-White people as invisible. Seriously, somebody brought up the “Love See No Color” thing and outrage insued. Somebody actually said, “That’s just means Whites don’t even see Blacks!”
I can’t begin to relate how tedious and absurd the discussions around race became in these classes. People felt unsafe… a lot. I know this because they kept saing, “I feel really unsafe right now.” People cried and self disclosed. Turned out that everybody was a racist. Well, OK, all the White students. Non-White students didn’t contribute to the discussions because they didn’t want to have to “be a representative for their race.” I too gave up contributing because I didn’t want to be a representative for sanity.
The remedy, we’re told, is to “honor/celebrate diversity.” In fact, whole non-profit organizations have been developed, whole FTE training positions have been hired, and whole divisions in government agencies have been formed to propegate this ideology. We’ve gone from “differences don’t matter” to “differences matter a lot” and we must train people to understand just how different we really are. Though the differences are spun positively (as opposed to the negative stereotypes of days past), I can’t help but experience this strategy as devisive. (Especially since there is one cultural group banned from celebrating its own identiy…or even admitting it has one…).
So now, Clinton identifies the “the illusion that our differences matter more than our common humanity” as our largest global problem. But then our tax dollars are paying for programs that promote the opposite point of view. The source of the illusion is no mystery; it’s merely an example of ideology run amok.
The truth is, we are all different and the same. We are all human. We are no better or worse any anybody else. And, quite frankly, we need to get over ourselves. The biggest problem facing the global community today? We take ourselves way too seriously.
“On NBC's "Meet the Press," also taped Friday and aired Sunday, Clinton told interviewer Tim Russert that the biggest problem confronting the world today is ‘the illusion that our differences matter more than our common humanity.’”
Wait a minute. “…the illusion that our differences matter more than our common humanity…” First off, did Clinton actually say that we should focus on our similarities rather than our differences? Second, this illusion he speaks of…
Whoa…I’m way ahead of myself. See, I’m a White child of the 70s and my parents (and TV culture) raised me to believe that, well, we should focus on our similarities rather than our differences. It didn’t matter that Willis and Arnold were Black and Mr. Drummond was White—what mattered was that they were a family (for its time, this show seemed pretty progressive). My well-meaning, liberal, parents told me “Skin color doesn’t matter, we’re all human.” I wonder if the words of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. influenced them in any way:
“I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”
They told me racism is bad, I should treat everybody equally and I should not judge anyone based on color, religion, disability, age, sexual orientation, etc. My dad bought a “Love See No Color” t-shirt from an African American street vendor. I thought I had it figured out.
Until I took women’s studies classes at the local University at the ripe old age of 27 and found out I’m racist because I believe that color doesn’t matter. They accused me (and other’s like me) of thinking of non-White people as invisible. Seriously, somebody brought up the “Love See No Color” thing and outrage insued. Somebody actually said, “That’s just means Whites don’t even see Blacks!”
I can’t begin to relate how tedious and absurd the discussions around race became in these classes. People felt unsafe… a lot. I know this because they kept saing, “I feel really unsafe right now.” People cried and self disclosed. Turned out that everybody was a racist. Well, OK, all the White students. Non-White students didn’t contribute to the discussions because they didn’t want to have to “be a representative for their race.” I too gave up contributing because I didn’t want to be a representative for sanity.
The remedy, we’re told, is to “honor/celebrate diversity.” In fact, whole non-profit organizations have been developed, whole FTE training positions have been hired, and whole divisions in government agencies have been formed to propegate this ideology. We’ve gone from “differences don’t matter” to “differences matter a lot” and we must train people to understand just how different we really are. Though the differences are spun positively (as opposed to the negative stereotypes of days past), I can’t help but experience this strategy as devisive. (Especially since there is one cultural group banned from celebrating its own identiy…or even admitting it has one…).
So now, Clinton identifies the “the illusion that our differences matter more than our common humanity” as our largest global problem. But then our tax dollars are paying for programs that promote the opposite point of view. The source of the illusion is no mystery; it’s merely an example of ideology run amok.
The truth is, we are all different and the same. We are all human. We are no better or worse any anybody else. And, quite frankly, we need to get over ourselves. The biggest problem facing the global community today? We take ourselves way too seriously.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
On Bus Stalking and Letting Go...
My daughter entered kindergarten in
This is how I became a bus stalker. The little darling had requested she be allowed to ride the bus. Frankly, given the open-enrollment policy of the school district, just getting her settled in a school confused me so much that I had the information lady at the school district screening my calls.
Me: “You mean, she can go to any school in town?”
Me: “Uh… so, uh…”
Me: “Well, how do I choose a school?”
Translation: most people pick other schools, so it should be easy to get her in that one since you waited until the last minute to bother with caring about your child’s education, you lazy excuse for a parent.
Once she was settled in the school, I found I needed to have her in an after school program twice a week and that she’d need school transportation to get her there. Now, the idea of coordinating my child with busses terrified me. I mean, when I was a kid, you went to the corner of your street, a bus came along and picked you up, dropped you off at your nearby school and, at the end of the day, the same bus picked you up and dropped you off at your street corner (where your stay-at-home mom stood loyal and true, ready to scoop you up, feed you cookies and hear about your mishaps and triumphs in between vacuuming and preparing the pot roast) Simple.
Her first bus day began with the following conversation.
Me: “Today, you ride the bus.”
Girl Child: “I’m a big dancing chicken .”
Me: “Cassie, really, this is important, today remember to ride the bus after school. Mommy won’t pick you up, you’ll ride the bus. Do you remember the bus number?”
Girl Child: “Bus, bus, bus….chicken.”
That afternoon, I arrived a half hour before school was out, so that I could park and stake out the bus loading zone. I climbed up a grassy knoll and sat low, staring intently at the group of gathering bus riders until I spotted her, my little purple-coated offspring.
The bus brigade stacked in, and my girl obediently followed her line onto her bus, #141. Time for my next phase of supervision so I hopped back into my truck. However, at the same time, all the drive-up parents arrived; effectively jamming up the whole block so when the busses began their departure I sat stuck behind somebody’s smoking Volvo. Noooooooooo!
I strained to keep my eye on #141 as I made several attempts to ease around the Volvo. Finally, I squeaked by, and put the pedal to the metal…top speed 25 mph. #141 turned a corner 3 blocks from my location but I knew the area well enough that I thought I could catch it. I turned the same corner and did not see any busses. Oh No!! Then, a glimpse of yellow down a side street and I resumed my chase.
Oops, the kids began the transfer process. I could see Cassie’s purple coat plop onto the sidewalk and dissapear behind other busses, tracked her purple shoes make a few confused circles, approach a teacher's loafers and get pointed to the next bus. However, I couldn’t see the number! I left my parking location and made a loop around the block but by the time I got around I could no longer visualize her current location in the queue. I lost her!!
I made another loop and crept by all the busses, desperately staring through the windows for the haircut I knew so well.
Fortunately, I spotted Cassie; bus #96 and 4th in the bus queue. I pulled into a no parking zone, idled for a quick departure, but all the busses departed in unison; baring any other cars from invading the convoy. I had to wait for 17 busses to depart before I could join them and by then I’d completely lost sight of #96. My efforts to track my child had ended in failure and I swear somebody wrote down my license number. Not good.
The busses began to leave the herd but I couldn’t see #96. Implementing my last desperate plan, I headed toward the after-school location hoping I’d see #96 along the way.
In the end, I parked by the child care and waited; trying to calm my respiration and heart rate. Eventually #96 arrived and children spilled out; the last, wearing a purple coat trotted into the gates completely unaware of her mother watching from the shadows. She did it.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
On Attention Deficit and Chemical Accidents…
I can’t stop messing with my hair. After approximately 4 weeks (sometimes sooner), my hair becomes intolerable to me and I must alter it somehow. Shorter, slantier, lighter, darker, layered, unlayered, streaky, plain…4 weeks and time for a change.
I make excuses because my husband thinks I’m nuts. He’s right. Here are some of my explanations:
1) See, it takes a long time to style it when it has those layers in the front so I trimmed it to be a little more sleek.
2) See, it takes a long time to style it when it’s all straight like it was, so I layered it… see how it falls more naturally now?
3) It’s much easier to do my make-up when the color is right… Since I darkened it a bit, I feel so much better...more “me.”
4) It was just too dark and plain. I think it looks better with some texture and highlights, don’t you? I look better blonde.
5) I really want to grow it out… I look better when it’s down to my shoulders.
6) I always think it will look better longer, but really, don’t you think my face looks thinner now that my hair is shorter?
7) Etc.
The reality is, I have HADD: Hair Attention Deficit Disorder; the primary symptom is the inability to leave well enough alone. Occasionally, my disorder has resulted in some fantastically stylish hair, most of the time I end up looking not entirely different than I looked before, and a handful of self-stylings have resulted in memorable disasters.
I learn from the disasters. Lession #1: Go to professionals for highlighting (and pretty much any other hair styling but not Super Clips or Great Cuts, because they suck). Now, I admit I’ve had some success with home highlighting kits—especially when my hair stood “raw” and healthy and I had no time constraints or the influence of alcohol. However, I’ve had enough mishaps to rethink the do-it-oneself approach.
Truthfully, home highlighting kits are fun; comparable to those home chemistry kits one gets as a kid but is only allowed to use once because one generates such destruction on the first use that one’s obsessive compulsive mother refuses to clean the sticky artificial apple flavoring off the microwave and the cat ever again.
But now I’m grown up and hair coloring is exciting. So, with much anticipation, I open the box and remove the hair coloring supplies. For some reason, the manufacturers stick the protective gloves to the instructions so one has to peel them off before reading; as if some sort of chemical accident occurred that prompted this method of glove presentation. They don’t trust us to find them with the rest of the supplies.
Most home frosting/highlighting kits contain the following items: Instructions, gloves, a “coloring cap,” a head-sized plastic bag, 2 hooks (metal and plastic), a mixing tub, a stir paddle, a packet of powder, a bottle of white liquid, a tube of gel, a tube of “toner,” and a tube of conditioner.
The basic process is to: cover one’s entire head of hair with the cap, pull selected hair through the cap, mix the powder and liquid coloring agents via the paddle, apply the mixture to the selected hair, cover the mess with the bag, process hair for time determined by the “strand test” (a recommended step whereby one only colors a few strands of hair to determine how long to color all of your hair but nobody ever really does the strand test because nobody has the attention span to go through all of this for only a couple strands of hair), rinse selected hair, remove cap and rinse all hair, apply the conditioner, rinse and then apply the toner… style as usual.
Sounds simple, eh? OK, yeah, but it gets worse. We’ll start with the coloring cap which is a plastic bonnet dotted with suggested hair hole marks (not actual holes). After putting the bonnet on your head, you have to use the hooks (plastic or metal) to puncture the hole marks (without puncturing your head…ha ha) and grab chunks of hair from underneath the cap, and pull the hair through the holes. I won’t even get into how difficult it is to do this to the back of one’s head or how frustrated you’ll get when you poke through one hole and accidentally pull hair from a previous hole thus requiring a re-doo on that hole…
So after hours of this, you finally have a head of segregated hair poufs ready for chemical processing. You then empty the powder into the tub and attempt to mix in the other two chemicals without fluffing the powder all over the counter and also into your mucous membranes. Good luck with that.
Applying the chemicals is relatively easy until you accidentally get them on skin and find out why the gloves are so prominently displayed. Don’t worry, the skin grows back in a few days.
Then you cover the mess with the head-sized bag in order to increase the temperature of the hair to better process the lightening. Next you must wait anywhere from 60 to 90 minutes before you can wash it all out thus incurring the commentary and ridicule of your family because you really do look completely stupid for 60 to 90 minutes.
When your time is up, you get to rinse the selected hair, remove the cap, and add the final finishing chemicals. Hopefully this goes according to plan and you don’t find out that you left the chemicals on too long and now have gooey gobs of melted hair, or have punctured larger holes than intended and leaked the chemicals to your scalp where they spread out and lightened too much hair to almost transparency giving the appearance of bald spots all over your head… or didn’t leave the chemicals on long enough to get past the orange stage of coloring…Not that I would know.
Yes, I’ve had my encounters with home coloring and these days I keep to the salons when I have the color urge. Hmm… how long has it been since my last appointment? Where is that phone number….ah, here it is… Yes, hello, do you have any appointments available for a color weave (they call it “weave”) next Saturday? Afternoon? Yes, yes that sounds good…and maybe a trim too… I’m getting too scraggily…
I make excuses because my husband thinks I’m nuts. He’s right. Here are some of my explanations:
1) See, it takes a long time to style it when it has those layers in the front so I trimmed it to be a little more sleek.
2) See, it takes a long time to style it when it’s all straight like it was, so I layered it… see how it falls more naturally now?
3) It’s much easier to do my make-up when the color is right… Since I darkened it a bit, I feel so much better...more “me.”
4) It was just too dark and plain. I think it looks better with some texture and highlights, don’t you? I look better blonde.
5) I really want to grow it out… I look better when it’s down to my shoulders.
6) I always think it will look better longer, but really, don’t you think my face looks thinner now that my hair is shorter?
7) Etc.
The reality is, I have HADD: Hair Attention Deficit Disorder; the primary symptom is the inability to leave well enough alone. Occasionally, my disorder has resulted in some fantastically stylish hair, most of the time I end up looking not entirely different than I looked before, and a handful of self-stylings have resulted in memorable disasters.
I learn from the disasters. Lession #1: Go to professionals for highlighting (and pretty much any other hair styling but not Super Clips or Great Cuts, because they suck). Now, I admit I’ve had some success with home highlighting kits—especially when my hair stood “raw” and healthy and I had no time constraints or the influence of alcohol. However, I’ve had enough mishaps to rethink the do-it-oneself approach.
Truthfully, home highlighting kits are fun; comparable to those home chemistry kits one gets as a kid but is only allowed to use once because one generates such destruction on the first use that one’s obsessive compulsive mother refuses to clean the sticky artificial apple flavoring off the microwave and the cat ever again.
But now I’m grown up and hair coloring is exciting. So, with much anticipation, I open the box and remove the hair coloring supplies. For some reason, the manufacturers stick the protective gloves to the instructions so one has to peel them off before reading; as if some sort of chemical accident occurred that prompted this method of glove presentation. They don’t trust us to find them with the rest of the supplies.
Most home frosting/highlighting kits contain the following items: Instructions, gloves, a “coloring cap,” a head-sized plastic bag, 2 hooks (metal and plastic), a mixing tub, a stir paddle, a packet of powder, a bottle of white liquid, a tube of gel, a tube of “toner,” and a tube of conditioner.
The basic process is to: cover one’s entire head of hair with the cap, pull selected hair through the cap, mix the powder and liquid coloring agents via the paddle, apply the mixture to the selected hair, cover the mess with the bag, process hair for time determined by the “strand test” (a recommended step whereby one only colors a few strands of hair to determine how long to color all of your hair but nobody ever really does the strand test because nobody has the attention span to go through all of this for only a couple strands of hair), rinse selected hair, remove cap and rinse all hair, apply the conditioner, rinse and then apply the toner… style as usual.
Sounds simple, eh? OK, yeah, but it gets worse. We’ll start with the coloring cap which is a plastic bonnet dotted with suggested hair hole marks (not actual holes). After putting the bonnet on your head, you have to use the hooks (plastic or metal) to puncture the hole marks (without puncturing your head…ha ha) and grab chunks of hair from underneath the cap, and pull the hair through the holes. I won’t even get into how difficult it is to do this to the back of one’s head or how frustrated you’ll get when you poke through one hole and accidentally pull hair from a previous hole thus requiring a re-doo on that hole…
So after hours of this, you finally have a head of segregated hair poufs ready for chemical processing. You then empty the powder into the tub and attempt to mix in the other two chemicals without fluffing the powder all over the counter and also into your mucous membranes. Good luck with that.
Applying the chemicals is relatively easy until you accidentally get them on skin and find out why the gloves are so prominently displayed. Don’t worry, the skin grows back in a few days.
Then you cover the mess with the head-sized bag in order to increase the temperature of the hair to better process the lightening. Next you must wait anywhere from 60 to 90 minutes before you can wash it all out thus incurring the commentary and ridicule of your family because you really do look completely stupid for 60 to 90 minutes.
When your time is up, you get to rinse the selected hair, remove the cap, and add the final finishing chemicals. Hopefully this goes according to plan and you don’t find out that you left the chemicals on too long and now have gooey gobs of melted hair, or have punctured larger holes than intended and leaked the chemicals to your scalp where they spread out and lightened too much hair to almost transparency giving the appearance of bald spots all over your head… or didn’t leave the chemicals on long enough to get past the orange stage of coloring…Not that I would know.
Yes, I’ve had my encounters with home coloring and these days I keep to the salons when I have the color urge. Hmm… how long has it been since my last appointment? Where is that phone number….ah, here it is… Yes, hello, do you have any appointments available for a color weave (they call it “weave”) next Saturday? Afternoon? Yes, yes that sounds good…and maybe a trim too… I’m getting too scraggily…
Friday, September 15, 2006
On Simple Lunches and Class…
I am officially tired of the noodle bowls. In an attempt to lay in inexpensive work lunches, and specifically ones that could be prepared via the hot-tap on the office water cooler, I bought a slew of “Simply Asia” noodle bowls from the local Winco.
At first, this was very exciting and I eagerly awaited my lunch to discover what flavor I’d randomly select from the bottom of my file cabinet. Shitake mushroom, garlic ginger, spring onion (not to be confused with autumnal onions, apparently), lemon grass, chili something…etc. Variety and food under $1? Beautiful. A middle-class woman’s dream.
I selected lemon grass and carted it off to the kitchen. After removing the cardboard exterior, knifing the titanium strength external plastic wrap, and carefully peeling back the fragile paper top (but leaving it connected because it is needed to cover the noodles later); I discovered that the loose rice noodles sported another package that included 3 “seasoning” packets. So, in order to partake of “Simply Asia,” one has to open seven separate packaging formations.
One of the packets contained a clear oily liquid that resembled...well...oil. Another held, according to the writing on it, “vegetables,” but they appeared to be shriveled up lawn clippings and I hesitated to add them but did so in the hopes that the hot water would restore their original brilliance. The third packet contained “flavoring” (i.e. colored salt).
After adding all three to my noodles, and wiping portions off of the ingredients off the counter--because apparently it is impossible to open these packets without spillage--I engaged in the hot-tap dance. By that I mean that I had to hold the noodle bowl in such a way that it remained level, with paper top gently arched back, and the hot-tap tab properly pushed in so that the hot-tap could be deployed thus releasing MacDonald’s-coffee-temperature-hot water into my noodle medley to the “fill line” and all over my hand.
The directions indicated that the burning sensation would dissipate with time and also advised that if I let my bowl sit for 3 minutes, it would be ready to eat. Three minutes passed and I excitedly peeled back the top, stirred the meal, and dug in for my first bite.
Helpfully, the directions also indicated that the burning sensation in my mouth would go away after a few days but they said nothing about the creepy texture of the “noodles” (in quotes now because I suspect they are not noodles and are, in fact, reconstituted strips of wax paper), the impact of the industrial strength sodium content, and the “vegetables” that not only resemble but taste like grass clippings.
Yummy. Apparently, “Simply Asia” is more complex than I had given it credit for. I felt mislead. Still, I ate the noodles because I had to because I’d purchased them and god forbid I waste food. And I continued to eat the other noodle bowls, hoping that each new flavor would bring the noodley delight I’d hoped for. They did not. However, in fairness, the shitake mushrooms did not taste like grass clippings but more like small mummified rodent babies.
Today I gagged down my last “Simply Asia” and chased it with a leftover generic Oreo-like cookie from yesterday’s staff meeting. Wow. Is that really as pathetic as it sounds? Do I care so little about myself? Apparently so.
Tomorrow, I bring tuna and something involving goat cheese. I’m worth it.
At first, this was very exciting and I eagerly awaited my lunch to discover what flavor I’d randomly select from the bottom of my file cabinet. Shitake mushroom, garlic ginger, spring onion (not to be confused with autumnal onions, apparently), lemon grass, chili something…etc. Variety and food under $1? Beautiful. A middle-class woman’s dream.
I selected lemon grass and carted it off to the kitchen. After removing the cardboard exterior, knifing the titanium strength external plastic wrap, and carefully peeling back the fragile paper top (but leaving it connected because it is needed to cover the noodles later); I discovered that the loose rice noodles sported another package that included 3 “seasoning” packets. So, in order to partake of “Simply Asia,” one has to open seven separate packaging formations.
One of the packets contained a clear oily liquid that resembled...well...oil. Another held, according to the writing on it, “vegetables,” but they appeared to be shriveled up lawn clippings and I hesitated to add them but did so in the hopes that the hot water would restore their original brilliance. The third packet contained “flavoring” (i.e. colored salt).
After adding all three to my noodles, and wiping portions off of the ingredients off the counter--because apparently it is impossible to open these packets without spillage--I engaged in the hot-tap dance. By that I mean that I had to hold the noodle bowl in such a way that it remained level, with paper top gently arched back, and the hot-tap tab properly pushed in so that the hot-tap could be deployed thus releasing MacDonald’s-coffee-temperature-hot water into my noodle medley to the “fill line” and all over my hand.
The directions indicated that the burning sensation would dissipate with time and also advised that if I let my bowl sit for 3 minutes, it would be ready to eat. Three minutes passed and I excitedly peeled back the top, stirred the meal, and dug in for my first bite.
Helpfully, the directions also indicated that the burning sensation in my mouth would go away after a few days but they said nothing about the creepy texture of the “noodles” (in quotes now because I suspect they are not noodles and are, in fact, reconstituted strips of wax paper), the impact of the industrial strength sodium content, and the “vegetables” that not only resemble but taste like grass clippings.
Yummy. Apparently, “Simply Asia” is more complex than I had given it credit for. I felt mislead. Still, I ate the noodles because I had to because I’d purchased them and god forbid I waste food. And I continued to eat the other noodle bowls, hoping that each new flavor would bring the noodley delight I’d hoped for. They did not. However, in fairness, the shitake mushrooms did not taste like grass clippings but more like small mummified rodent babies.
Today I gagged down my last “Simply Asia” and chased it with a leftover generic Oreo-like cookie from yesterday’s staff meeting. Wow. Is that really as pathetic as it sounds? Do I care so little about myself? Apparently so.
Tomorrow, I bring tuna and something involving goat cheese. I’m worth it.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
On Blog Readership and "Hello Out There!"...
I’m wondering if anybody reads my blogs… you know, other than my husband and friends who are simply blog victims; commissioned into service by guilt. It is pleasurable to write them, but more pleasurable to write them for an audience…however captive.
I know one person, Anonymous, read one of them because he/she kindly left a comment. Got so riled up that Anonymous couldn’t restrain his/herself and purged a reprimand. Initially, I felt shame and then I thought, people actually read this?? And then I thought, who? How? Why? And… Cool.
So hey, if you are not my husband, family or close friends (and even if you are) and you like what you read, get torqued off by what you read, or simply have wisdom or observations to make—related or unrelated to anything you’ve read here—please feel free to comment. It’ll encourage me to be more prolific, knowing I’m not just writing to the vacuum of space and also help me focus on what works and what doesn’t.
Question for the day:
What makes a blog good?
I know one person, Anonymous, read one of them because he/she kindly left a comment. Got so riled up that Anonymous couldn’t restrain his/herself and purged a reprimand. Initially, I felt shame and then I thought, people actually read this?? And then I thought, who? How? Why? And… Cool.
So hey, if you are not my husband, family or close friends (and even if you are) and you like what you read, get torqued off by what you read, or simply have wisdom or observations to make—related or unrelated to anything you’ve read here—please feel free to comment. It’ll encourage me to be more prolific, knowing I’m not just writing to the vacuum of space and also help me focus on what works and what doesn’t.
Question for the day:
What makes a blog good?
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
On Holidays and Baguettes…
Summer has gone by quickly, the leaves are turning, and I’m giving thought to the upcoming holiday season. Almost time to go into the attic and drag down the decorations, cook the traditional foods, let someone know you care… Yes, before we know it, it’ll be Black History Month (BHM) again and, I confess, I’m not at all prepared.
This probably has something to do with the fact that I’m, well, White. So, imagine my dismay when, last year, I began to receive office emails from the “Department Employees of Color Committee” announcing the BHM noon-time potluck and inviting the whole office to participate. The menu? Soul food.
Oh man. I don’t really cook much anyway, but the things that I do cook involve pizza and sometimes, when I’m feeling really crazy, burritos. The unifying factor is, of course, olives. I cook dorky White-girl food and the last thing I wanted to do was prepare something I guessed was “soul food.” I mean, way too much danger of food stereotyping.
I engaged myself in a debate about my participation. If I don’t go, what would people think? Is it offensive not to participate in BHM potlucks? Then, if I did go, how on earth would I ever come up with a politically correct contribution? In undergraduate women’s studies classes, I learned that associating certain foods with African-Americans is racist.
Or worse, would people think I was some sort of food opportunist who doesn’t give a fig about BHM but just wants to score a free lunch?
I’d pretty much decided to opt out, the pressure too intense and the chance for BHM blunders too high. However, a few days later, a Caseworker of Color handed me the sign up sheet. “What are you going to bring?” she asked expectantly. I tried to get out of it, sighting my poor cooking ability, but she said, “Oh, just bring something easy.”
I looked at the list. Sweet potato pies, collard greens, beans and rices…But then I found a category I could live with: Bread. I wrote (in my typical descriptive way) “tasty baguette” and trotted the list to other co-workers. One of them (who happens to be Black) looked at the list and said, “Tasty baguette? What’s that?” (she speaks in italics) The women of color surrounding her chortled.
I stuttered, “Uh, you know, bread…” One of them said, “Hey, yeah, just make sure it’s brown bread…” More laughter at my expense.
I bought the bread; a freshly baked (brown) 5 grain and some Toby’s Spread (It’s tofu based, OK? Deal with it) and arrived back at my office right at potluck time. I intended to go in, I really did, but walked right on by the densely packed masticating crowd of multicultural participants; directly to my cubicle and sat down limply.
I chickened out. The cultural and culinary pressures paralyzed me. In addition to being a White girl, I am, apparently, a ninny. I opened up the spread, found my butter knife, unwrapped my paper bag and proceeded to eat my tofu-laced bread of color.
Maybe I’ll just stay home this year…You know, a nice quiet BHM without all the hoopla and commercialism...
This probably has something to do with the fact that I’m, well, White. So, imagine my dismay when, last year, I began to receive office emails from the “Department Employees of Color Committee” announcing the BHM noon-time potluck and inviting the whole office to participate. The menu? Soul food.
Oh man. I don’t really cook much anyway, but the things that I do cook involve pizza and sometimes, when I’m feeling really crazy, burritos. The unifying factor is, of course, olives. I cook dorky White-girl food and the last thing I wanted to do was prepare something I guessed was “soul food.” I mean, way too much danger of food stereotyping.
I engaged myself in a debate about my participation. If I don’t go, what would people think? Is it offensive not to participate in BHM potlucks? Then, if I did go, how on earth would I ever come up with a politically correct contribution? In undergraduate women’s studies classes, I learned that associating certain foods with African-Americans is racist.
Or worse, would people think I was some sort of food opportunist who doesn’t give a fig about BHM but just wants to score a free lunch?
I’d pretty much decided to opt out, the pressure too intense and the chance for BHM blunders too high. However, a few days later, a Caseworker of Color handed me the sign up sheet. “What are you going to bring?” she asked expectantly. I tried to get out of it, sighting my poor cooking ability, but she said, “Oh, just bring something easy.”
I looked at the list. Sweet potato pies, collard greens, beans and rices…But then I found a category I could live with: Bread. I wrote (in my typical descriptive way) “tasty baguette” and trotted the list to other co-workers. One of them (who happens to be Black) looked at the list and said, “Tasty baguette? What’s that?” (she speaks in italics) The women of color surrounding her chortled.
I stuttered, “Uh, you know, bread…” One of them said, “Hey, yeah, just make sure it’s brown bread…” More laughter at my expense.
I bought the bread; a freshly baked (brown) 5 grain and some Toby’s Spread (It’s tofu based, OK? Deal with it) and arrived back at my office right at potluck time. I intended to go in, I really did, but walked right on by the densely packed masticating crowd of multicultural participants; directly to my cubicle and sat down limply.
I chickened out. The cultural and culinary pressures paralyzed me. In addition to being a White girl, I am, apparently, a ninny. I opened up the spread, found my butter knife, unwrapped my paper bag and proceeded to eat my tofu-laced bread of color.
Maybe I’ll just stay home this year…You know, a nice quiet BHM without all the hoopla and commercialism...
On Dark Sides and Lolly Pops...
Recently I posted a blog expressing my frustration, one hectic morning, about peanut butter—specifically that my daughter was suddenly not supposed to bring her own peanut butter sandwich (which I found out just as I’d made one, just before rushing out the door and with no back-up, non-perishable foods on hand, after years of peanut butter being OK) due to another child having a peanut allergy (who incidentally seemed to tolerate peanut butter proximity in the past).
It was a rant blog… an expression of those deep dark places we all have but we rarely reveal because people become offended and worked up when you show your dark side. Everyone must be sunshine and lollypops—inside and out—right? Ever patient, understanding, accommodating…always.
I confess, I’m not always sunshine and lollypops. Sometimes I get selfish. Sometimes I get mad. Sometimes I’m not PC. Sometimes I’m stubborn. Sometimes I’m unreasonable… Later, I generally do the right thing, but for a moment I’m downright naughty inside.
I wrote about one of these times. An anonymous commentator found it offensive and assumed that I’m universally insensitive. I guess Anonymous doesn’t have dark moments like I do, and God bless her/him for that.
I’ll tell you, most of the time, I’m doing my best to play well in the sandpit…probably to a fault. I follow the rules, say please and thank you, yield to others… I’m ever courteous…even a bit of a pushover. In the “big city” I live in, courtesy is rare… Occasionally I do tire of being nice all the time… occasionally I wanna be bad to the bone.
It occurred to me that writing about my dark side may be too intense for some viewers. (Without going overboard with mitigations, ala “of course I won’t really try to harm Neb by sending peanut butter…” “of course I’m not really that insensitive and I’ll probably figure out a way to send something else if it’s absolutely necessary…” “Of course I’m a total weenie who’d never really be this obnoxious…”)
So, OK, I take it back. You are right, Anonymous, Neb’s needs are very important and I’m a bad dog for writing an absurd blog about my own petty frustrations. In the future, when I rant, I’ll make every effort to soften it and indicate that it is only a rant and not intended to be taken seriously…that way, nobody gets hurt.
We’ll group hug. I’ll serve peanut-free organic vegan foods that don’t spoil without refrigeration in the hot sun…when I find them. I’m, as ever, open to suggestions.
It was a rant blog… an expression of those deep dark places we all have but we rarely reveal because people become offended and worked up when you show your dark side. Everyone must be sunshine and lollypops—inside and out—right? Ever patient, understanding, accommodating…always.
I confess, I’m not always sunshine and lollypops. Sometimes I get selfish. Sometimes I get mad. Sometimes I’m not PC. Sometimes I’m stubborn. Sometimes I’m unreasonable… Later, I generally do the right thing, but for a moment I’m downright naughty inside.
I wrote about one of these times. An anonymous commentator found it offensive and assumed that I’m universally insensitive. I guess Anonymous doesn’t have dark moments like I do, and God bless her/him for that.
I’ll tell you, most of the time, I’m doing my best to play well in the sandpit…probably to a fault. I follow the rules, say please and thank you, yield to others… I’m ever courteous…even a bit of a pushover. In the “big city” I live in, courtesy is rare… Occasionally I do tire of being nice all the time… occasionally I wanna be bad to the bone.
It occurred to me that writing about my dark side may be too intense for some viewers. (Without going overboard with mitigations, ala “of course I won’t really try to harm Neb by sending peanut butter…” “of course I’m not really that insensitive and I’ll probably figure out a way to send something else if it’s absolutely necessary…” “Of course I’m a total weenie who’d never really be this obnoxious…”)
So, OK, I take it back. You are right, Anonymous, Neb’s needs are very important and I’m a bad dog for writing an absurd blog about my own petty frustrations. In the future, when I rant, I’ll make every effort to soften it and indicate that it is only a rant and not intended to be taken seriously…that way, nobody gets hurt.
We’ll group hug. I’ll serve peanut-free organic vegan foods that don’t spoil without refrigeration in the hot sun…when I find them. I’m, as ever, open to suggestions.
Monday, August 28, 2006
On Mooving to Montana...
Montana had been a fantasy life. A place of wonder, freedom, and independent living. When an opportunity to move there arose from a contract job offer, we jumped at the chance to experience Big Sky Country. At last, I could be a mountain girl, a frontier woman, a hardy lass who wore turquoise and laughed at danger. I’d dance under the wild Montana skies!
At least, that was my little delusion. In reality, I’m an Oregonian who grew up with two seasons—wet and not-as-wet. My fashion sense depends largely on name-brand rain gear, layered over drab sweaters and khaki pants. My idea of severe weather involves an inch of snow or a single rumble of thunder, and my truck has anti-hydroplane tires.
Clearly, I had much to learn about living there and I make a confession about my primary handicap. I did not understand steak. I couldn’t tell a good petite sirloin from a package of “reduced for quick sale.” When necessary, I select beef cuts based on price: anything under $2.99 is fair game for my George Foreman grill. I’m mostly used to poultry; simple, small portions of boneless, skinless delicacies.
Not that I have anything against beef. In fact, some of my fondest memories include cow flesh in one form or another…I’m sure of it. I mean, you know, Arby’s Beef’n’Cheddar. I’m no vegetarian.
And yet, when dining at “The Oasis,” a famous local steakhouse in Belgrade, Montana; I wondered what, exactly, it was an oasis from? Certainly not cow. I faced a menu rife with beef options, and experienced a strange sort of protein anxiety. Filet mignon, porterhouse, T-bone, flank, tips, tops, bottoms… rounds… I became lost in the shear range of bovine portions and found myself searching desperately for something familiar; something with feathers. It felt easier that way; safer. I know a good bird breast when I see one. Appreciate a juicy thigh marinated in some tangy herbal rub.
I panicked. I did. My heart beating, my mouth dry, my eyes clouding, the waitress waiting… I meant to order steak, it was all about the steak, and at the moment of commitment, I uttered quietly, “Um, I’ll have the broasted chicken…with…ah…Jo Jo’s.”
At that moment, I realized my faux paus. The steak house quieted, eyes rolled, throats cleared, and someone sipped a clink of ice water. The waitress paused, wrote quickly on her pad, swallowed and asked if that was all. Yes, yes, what else could I say? Damn you, familiar chickens.
John Denver did not prepare me for this.
Maybe Montana was just too much for me. Perhaps I’m not the redneck I’d always thought I was…We’re back in Oregon now and I sure do miss those skies and the live and let live philosophy; but I admit the chicken here is delightful and nobody holds my poultry preference against me… Well, you know, except vegans.
mln
At least, that was my little delusion. In reality, I’m an Oregonian who grew up with two seasons—wet and not-as-wet. My fashion sense depends largely on name-brand rain gear, layered over drab sweaters and khaki pants. My idea of severe weather involves an inch of snow or a single rumble of thunder, and my truck has anti-hydroplane tires.
Clearly, I had much to learn about living there and I make a confession about my primary handicap. I did not understand steak. I couldn’t tell a good petite sirloin from a package of “reduced for quick sale.” When necessary, I select beef cuts based on price: anything under $2.99 is fair game for my George Foreman grill. I’m mostly used to poultry; simple, small portions of boneless, skinless delicacies.
Not that I have anything against beef. In fact, some of my fondest memories include cow flesh in one form or another…I’m sure of it. I mean, you know, Arby’s Beef’n’Cheddar. I’m no vegetarian.
And yet, when dining at “The Oasis,” a famous local steakhouse in Belgrade, Montana; I wondered what, exactly, it was an oasis from? Certainly not cow. I faced a menu rife with beef options, and experienced a strange sort of protein anxiety. Filet mignon, porterhouse, T-bone, flank, tips, tops, bottoms… rounds… I became lost in the shear range of bovine portions and found myself searching desperately for something familiar; something with feathers. It felt easier that way; safer. I know a good bird breast when I see one. Appreciate a juicy thigh marinated in some tangy herbal rub.
I panicked. I did. My heart beating, my mouth dry, my eyes clouding, the waitress waiting… I meant to order steak, it was all about the steak, and at the moment of commitment, I uttered quietly, “Um, I’ll have the broasted chicken…with…ah…Jo Jo’s.”
At that moment, I realized my faux paus. The steak house quieted, eyes rolled, throats cleared, and someone sipped a clink of ice water. The waitress paused, wrote quickly on her pad, swallowed and asked if that was all. Yes, yes, what else could I say? Damn you, familiar chickens.
John Denver did not prepare me for this.
Maybe Montana was just too much for me. Perhaps I’m not the redneck I’d always thought I was…We’re back in Oregon now and I sure do miss those skies and the live and let live philosophy; but I admit the chicken here is delightful and nobody holds my poultry preference against me… Well, you know, except vegans.
mln
Friday, August 18, 2006
On the Brevity of life and Water Toys…
My family is relatively young. We’ve been through hardships, individually and together… and good times too. Most recently—like many Americans—we endured the lay-off experience (ugh) but now have arrived at some (however momentary) stability.
We are pragmatic and practical people. Our purchases are thought-out, we buy things on sale, we wear drab neutral-colored shoes (and clothes for that matter…they all go together that way. Of course we end up looking like depressed socialists.)… There is nothing flashy about us, nothing extravagant; just simple, middle class, public worker values.
However, we have one dream. One luxury we can no longer live without. We’ve decided it’s time for a boat.
We want a 2007 Yamaha SX230 High Output (bowrider/jet propulsion) and it’s luscious. The Yamaha folks aren’t releasing official information about it until 8/21 at 9:00AM PST—not that I’m paying attention, ahem… We’re told they’ve added a head (porta potty…but it’s way more fun to say “head”) compartment to the model which I—as a mother and a female—am quite giddy about. (Ok, there is still some shopping and research to do and a boat show to attend… but we’re strongly leaning toward this boat).
Here's the link to their website and the 2006 models:
http://www.yamaha-motor.com/boat/products/lifestylehome/home.aspx
And a link to the 2007 preview:
http://www.motorboating.com/motorboat/photogallery/article/0,26512,1224122-26,00.html
Now, we live in a land of kayak, canoe and sail boaters who develop this appalled look when I show them our dream. They insist upon the peace and quiet of their water toys and abhor the loud ruckus of the power boat… This is primarily because they are not in one at the time. But, I tell you what, I’ll put any one of them in the Yamaha, tell them to hold on, and I’ll tear it up. Watch the grins appear.
I’ve always wanted a power boat. My parents borrowed one for a summer and I fell in love. I recall sitting in the bow, fully underway, with my little boombox playing Dire Straits, Brothers in Arms… transported to another universe. My dad let me drive it and I stood in “Miami Vice” ecstasy… I knew then I must have one of my own someday.
Fortunately, I married a man with the same intense desire for boat utopia and we have our priorities straight. Essentially, should we buy one? Of course not. Is it a good financial investment? Nope. Would responsible people pour their money into an oversized water toy? Nah.
Do we care? Hell no. Here’s where we are. Life’s too damned short and there are no guarantees. We could be the most frugal people on earth, make all the wise financial investments, pay off our debts, never go out to eat and save save save… But you never know how much time you have and all that sacrifice and waiting just might not pay off. What good is all that financial investing and conserving if you end up folding before you get to any reward? I’m not willing to gamble our youth and enthusiasm on this ideal of total financial security when we are too old to enjoy it…I’ve learned that even if you play the game by all the “rules,” you can still end up on the bottom.
My child will be 8 in November. She adores us, she loves spending time with us, she’s a daredevil and she loves the water. Our boat is not a sound financial investment but it’s an investment in memories. When I’m 90 (assuming I make it that long), sitting on my back porch…worn out and used up. Am I going to reminisce about the property I bought and sold, or the bank account I plumped up, or the credit card I finally paid off? Or would my mind wander instead to Cassie bouncing on some ridiculous inflated toy…screaming her head off and my lovely husband at the helm.
The boat will be our waterfront property… Our parlor… our family therapy…our social director…our amusement park…our escape… We’ll watch Cassie grow up on it, bring her girlfriends…andher boyfriends on it… through it we’ll keep her engaged and get to know her. We’ll have an outlet for forming new friendships…something to invite new people to do. We’ll bring old friends on it and watch them laugh… Jim and I will take moonlight cruises together…let our stress and responsibilities float away…reconnect when “real life” gets out of hand.
We work hard, we’ve achieved things nobody thought we could. We don’t make a ton of money and we don’t expect to be rich and famous. However, of all the luxuries or creature comforts… this is what we want. Cars, fancy homes, trips to Paris, in-home theaters…? Nah.
We’ll be at the January boat show and with luck, next spring, you’ll find us on some patch of water…tearing it up or laying around like happy sea lions.
We are pragmatic and practical people. Our purchases are thought-out, we buy things on sale, we wear drab neutral-colored shoes (and clothes for that matter…they all go together that way. Of course we end up looking like depressed socialists.)… There is nothing flashy about us, nothing extravagant; just simple, middle class, public worker values.
However, we have one dream. One luxury we can no longer live without. We’ve decided it’s time for a boat.
We want a 2007 Yamaha SX230 High Output (bowrider/jet propulsion) and it’s luscious. The Yamaha folks aren’t releasing official information about it until 8/21 at 9:00AM PST—not that I’m paying attention, ahem… We’re told they’ve added a head (porta potty…but it’s way more fun to say “head”) compartment to the model which I—as a mother and a female—am quite giddy about. (Ok, there is still some shopping and research to do and a boat show to attend… but we’re strongly leaning toward this boat).
Here's the link to their website and the 2006 models:
http://www.yamaha-motor.com/boat/products/lifestylehome/home.aspx
And a link to the 2007 preview:
http://www.motorboating.com/motorboat/photogallery/article/0,26512,1224122-26,00.html
Now, we live in a land of kayak, canoe and sail boaters who develop this appalled look when I show them our dream. They insist upon the peace and quiet of their water toys and abhor the loud ruckus of the power boat… This is primarily because they are not in one at the time. But, I tell you what, I’ll put any one of them in the Yamaha, tell them to hold on, and I’ll tear it up. Watch the grins appear.
I’ve always wanted a power boat. My parents borrowed one for a summer and I fell in love. I recall sitting in the bow, fully underway, with my little boombox playing Dire Straits, Brothers in Arms… transported to another universe. My dad let me drive it and I stood in “Miami Vice” ecstasy… I knew then I must have one of my own someday.
Fortunately, I married a man with the same intense desire for boat utopia and we have our priorities straight. Essentially, should we buy one? Of course not. Is it a good financial investment? Nope. Would responsible people pour their money into an oversized water toy? Nah.
Do we care? Hell no. Here’s where we are. Life’s too damned short and there are no guarantees. We could be the most frugal people on earth, make all the wise financial investments, pay off our debts, never go out to eat and save save save… But you never know how much time you have and all that sacrifice and waiting just might not pay off. What good is all that financial investing and conserving if you end up folding before you get to any reward? I’m not willing to gamble our youth and enthusiasm on this ideal of total financial security when we are too old to enjoy it…I’ve learned that even if you play the game by all the “rules,” you can still end up on the bottom.
My child will be 8 in November. She adores us, she loves spending time with us, she’s a daredevil and she loves the water. Our boat is not a sound financial investment but it’s an investment in memories. When I’m 90 (assuming I make it that long), sitting on my back porch…worn out and used up. Am I going to reminisce about the property I bought and sold, or the bank account I plumped up, or the credit card I finally paid off? Or would my mind wander instead to Cassie bouncing on some ridiculous inflated toy…screaming her head off and my lovely husband at the helm.
The boat will be our waterfront property… Our parlor… our family therapy…our social director…our amusement park…our escape… We’ll watch Cassie grow up on it, bring her girlfriends…and
We work hard, we’ve achieved things nobody thought we could. We don’t make a ton of money and we don’t expect to be rich and famous. However, of all the luxuries or creature comforts… this is what we want. Cars, fancy homes, trips to Paris, in-home theaters…? Nah.
We’ll be at the January boat show and with luck, next spring, you’ll find us on some patch of water…tearing it up or laying around like happy sea lions.
Friday, August 11, 2006
On Lightheartedness and Tupperware...
I've been a blog grouch lately and feel it's time for some lighter fare.
On Tupperware…
There exists an unfortunate misconception that women actually enjoy Tupperware parties; or any “product-parties” for that matter. A woman can attend a “party” for anything: lingerie, candles, baby toys, small tropical lizards—it doesn’t matter—someone, somewhere, is giving a “party” for it and women are blindly ordering a half-dozen mauve geckos with a matching service tray.
Though these almost ritualistic gatherings carry the “party” moniker, they are frankly little more fun than experimenting with that home liposuction system you ordered from Candi of the shop-at-home network after staying up way too late eating Ben & Jerry’s Chubby Hubby ice cream. Chubby Hubby, Chubby Hubby, Chubby Hubby…that’s just really fun to say… Chubby Hubby.
Theoretically, someone—a man—decided the word “party” would convince people—women—to crowd onto someone’s lumpy sectional, drink generic coffee, purchase overpriced plastic gizmos (all major credit cards accepted) and have “fun.” Though it worked for the first Tupperware fete; those pioneering women quickly realized, from the ditzy Tupperware Lady’s first ice-breaker torture activity, that they were in for hours of unadulterated hell.
Given that these gatherings are unpleasant, one might wonder why this method of marketing prevails. The primary reason is free stuff. When you attend these “parties” you are told that, if you then host a “party,” you’ll receive free stuff when your guests order products. This is how the product “party” survives. Other women, who want free stuff, sign up to be a future hostess in the hopes she’ll score piles of free stuff; or at least obtain the miniature sandwich saver keychain, offered by the desperate Tupperware Lady, to anyone who’ll agree to have a party--whether she has a home or not.
Now the gullible new hostess inherits the problem of coercing women (who have just incidentally attended the previous party) to attend her “party.” Several major research institutions have studied the process by which women are enticed to attend these events, but they could never pin it down; likely because men conducted the research and there’s no way a man could possibly understand this phenomenon.
Allow me to explain. Predictably, the first invitees are a hostess’s close friends and relatives because they are compelled to attend by an ancient sacred Code. Prehistoric women developed The Code long ago when a Rocks-That-Happen-To-Be-Shaped-Like-Bowls “Party” ended in a riot because the hostess’s sister no-showed (with some pathetic excuse like having her arm torn off by a saber-toothed tiger, or something). Somewhere near Duluth, one can visit the historical landmark where blood and coffee stains forever grace the cave walls.
The new hostess also invites some lesser-friends. While these women do not fall under The Code, they will likely attend to “be nice,” get away from the kids, and pick up that Effortless Egg-Cracker, introduced last month. Ms. Hostess knows the lesser-friends will invite their own close friends, or relatives—relying on The Code—to go to the shindig with them so they don’t have to be at a “party” where they “don’t know anyone.” Now, 10 to 100 women have agreed to gather in someone’s living room for an event from which everyone will leave with a headache the approximate size of Guatemala.
To be fair, I must note that one positive thing did transpire from my attendance at a “party.” I won a serrated grapefruit spoon in a drawing and it is excellent for eating kiwi fruits. Thus goes the first basic law of Tupperware: You never use the items for what they were originally intended. Like, if it is a Deviled Egg Caddy, you’ll use it to knead bread.
The second law is: Food will taste better if it is removed from its original container and stored in expensive plastic gizmos that’ll give your cupboard or fridge and “elegant yet functional sense of style.” For example, a Pickle-Keeper is offered in an attempt to keep you from making the grave mistake of leaving your sweet gherkins in the obsolete glass jar, whereby you may have to use a time-consuming fork to get them out.
The third basic law, and likely the most vital, is that Tupperware must be burped so that it doesn’t spit up before you put it down for a nap.
The sellers of Tupperware claim that it will restore order to your kitchen. In reality, everyone has one cupboard dedicated to the renegade polymer containers, where they are organized carefully via chaos theory. No one wants to venture into the recesses of the cabinet, so the most available unit is used for everything. A juice pitcher may serve as both an Egg Scrambler and a Chip-n-Dip tray. The other Tupperware is quite happy with this arrangement because it can hang out, play poker, and taunt the Rubbermaid.
On Tupperware…
There exists an unfortunate misconception that women actually enjoy Tupperware parties; or any “product-parties” for that matter. A woman can attend a “party” for anything: lingerie, candles, baby toys, small tropical lizards—it doesn’t matter—someone, somewhere, is giving a “party” for it and women are blindly ordering a half-dozen mauve geckos with a matching service tray.
Though these almost ritualistic gatherings carry the “party” moniker, they are frankly little more fun than experimenting with that home liposuction system you ordered from Candi of the shop-at-home network after staying up way too late eating Ben & Jerry’s Chubby Hubby ice cream. Chubby Hubby, Chubby Hubby, Chubby Hubby…that’s just really fun to say… Chubby Hubby.
Theoretically, someone—a man—decided the word “party” would convince people—women—to crowd onto someone’s lumpy sectional, drink generic coffee, purchase overpriced plastic gizmos (all major credit cards accepted) and have “fun.” Though it worked for the first Tupperware fete; those pioneering women quickly realized, from the ditzy Tupperware Lady’s first ice-breaker torture activity, that they were in for hours of unadulterated hell.
Given that these gatherings are unpleasant, one might wonder why this method of marketing prevails. The primary reason is free stuff. When you attend these “parties” you are told that, if you then host a “party,” you’ll receive free stuff when your guests order products. This is how the product “party” survives. Other women, who want free stuff, sign up to be a future hostess in the hopes she’ll score piles of free stuff; or at least obtain the miniature sandwich saver keychain, offered by the desperate Tupperware Lady, to anyone who’ll agree to have a party--whether she has a home or not.
Now the gullible new hostess inherits the problem of coercing women (who have just incidentally attended the previous party) to attend her “party.” Several major research institutions have studied the process by which women are enticed to attend these events, but they could never pin it down; likely because men conducted the research and there’s no way a man could possibly understand this phenomenon.
Allow me to explain. Predictably, the first invitees are a hostess’s close friends and relatives because they are compelled to attend by an ancient sacred Code. Prehistoric women developed The Code long ago when a Rocks-That-Happen-To-Be-Shaped-Like-Bowls “Party” ended in a riot because the hostess’s sister no-showed (with some pathetic excuse like having her arm torn off by a saber-toothed tiger, or something). Somewhere near Duluth, one can visit the historical landmark where blood and coffee stains forever grace the cave walls.
The new hostess also invites some lesser-friends. While these women do not fall under The Code, they will likely attend to “be nice,” get away from the kids, and pick up that Effortless Egg-Cracker, introduced last month. Ms. Hostess knows the lesser-friends will invite their own close friends, or relatives—relying on The Code—to go to the shindig with them so they don’t have to be at a “party” where they “don’t know anyone.” Now, 10 to 100 women have agreed to gather in someone’s living room for an event from which everyone will leave with a headache the approximate size of Guatemala.
To be fair, I must note that one positive thing did transpire from my attendance at a “party.” I won a serrated grapefruit spoon in a drawing and it is excellent for eating kiwi fruits. Thus goes the first basic law of Tupperware: You never use the items for what they were originally intended. Like, if it is a Deviled Egg Caddy, you’ll use it to knead bread.
The second law is: Food will taste better if it is removed from its original container and stored in expensive plastic gizmos that’ll give your cupboard or fridge and “elegant yet functional sense of style.” For example, a Pickle-Keeper is offered in an attempt to keep you from making the grave mistake of leaving your sweet gherkins in the obsolete glass jar, whereby you may have to use a time-consuming fork to get them out.
The third basic law, and likely the most vital, is that Tupperware must be burped so that it doesn’t spit up before you put it down for a nap.
The sellers of Tupperware claim that it will restore order to your kitchen. In reality, everyone has one cupboard dedicated to the renegade polymer containers, where they are organized carefully via chaos theory. No one wants to venture into the recesses of the cabinet, so the most available unit is used for everything. A juice pitcher may serve as both an Egg Scrambler and a Chip-n-Dip tray. The other Tupperware is quite happy with this arrangement because it can hang out, play poker, and taunt the Rubbermaid.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
On Meeting in the Middle...
I’m afraid I’m scaring off my Liberal friends. I don’t mean to, but I live in a largely Liberal city with very Liberal ideals and I confess I’m not exactly Liberal myself. Apparently, non-Liberals are perceived by Liberals as being Conservative. Conversely, when I lived in Montana among Conservatives, they considered me Liberal because I am not Conservative.
Apparently it’s difficult to see a middle ground when one hangs out in extremes and is pushed by our two-party system (and a frenetic media) to embrace polarity. But I, like many other invisible Americans, hang out in the middle…on a patch of middle real estate. I’m a Moderate, or possibly a Libertarian—depending on the definitions.
Check these out—when you have some time to spare:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moderate
and
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Libertarianism
In a nutshell, I’m socially liberal and economically conservative. My political philosophy could be loosely summed up as “Live and Let Live.” I believe strongly in personal responsibility and my biggest frustration with Liberals and Conservatives is how both wish to control and judge others; while making the assumption that people can’t (or won’t) look after their own selves.
Another thing about Moderates; we don’t swallow every party line, every statistic, every news story as if they are absolute truths. We question everything. Everything. Yeah, even global warming, recycling, racism, and “One Nation Under God” are up for debate. Bring it on.
If I have any political mission, it’s to get people to think critically…not just blindly following the herd. If your position is sound and you stand by your beliefs, there should be no need for defensiveness, scorn, or avoidance. It should be OK to look at all angles.
My husband tells a story about a guy who couldn’t do this:
“I took an undergrad supply & logistics class at PSU and one of my group mates was from Yemen. He was Muslim and I remember that he also played Spanish guitar. Anyway, at some point we were discussing electives and philosophy class came up. He said that he signed up for philosophy class and enjoyed it for a while but then realized that it was causing him to question his religious beliefs and it made him uncomfortable so he dropped it…He didn’t want to expose himself to these other ways of thinking.”
How sad to be so threatened by information that one is afraid to even look at differing beliefs or challenging questions. How sad to be so caught up in one way of being that you simply can’t allow yourself to open up to other ways…or even to just understand them.
Aren’t you sick of polarity? Aren’t you sick of being the puppets of rich politicians and lobbyists who love to make you hate each other (Red vs Blue: The Uncivil War)? Don’t you think it benefits powerful people & businesses (including powerful foreign interests) to have you so divided into two opposite factions who rely on stereotypes and hearsay; rather than cold hard reason? Do you really believe half of the US is evil or stupid? Common… Stop being sheep, stop categorically hating each other, and start talking (and listening)… calmly, rationally, without defensiveness and name-calling.
The middle is messy. The middle does not have a clear purpose, agenda or assumptions. The middle takes energy and requires effort. The middle requires you to open up and explore...to believe in the good intentions of others and try to understand other points of view. Come roll around with me in the middle…get dirty and let go.
Apparently it’s difficult to see a middle ground when one hangs out in extremes and is pushed by our two-party system (and a frenetic media) to embrace polarity. But I, like many other invisible Americans, hang out in the middle…on a patch of middle real estate. I’m a Moderate, or possibly a Libertarian—depending on the definitions.
Check these out—when you have some time to spare:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moderate
and
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Libertarianism
In a nutshell, I’m socially liberal and economically conservative. My political philosophy could be loosely summed up as “Live and Let Live.” I believe strongly in personal responsibility and my biggest frustration with Liberals and Conservatives is how both wish to control and judge others; while making the assumption that people can’t (or won’t) look after their own selves.
Another thing about Moderates; we don’t swallow every party line, every statistic, every news story as if they are absolute truths. We question everything. Everything. Yeah, even global warming, recycling, racism, and “One Nation Under God” are up for debate. Bring it on.
If I have any political mission, it’s to get people to think critically…not just blindly following the herd. If your position is sound and you stand by your beliefs, there should be no need for defensiveness, scorn, or avoidance. It should be OK to look at all angles.
My husband tells a story about a guy who couldn’t do this:
“I took an undergrad supply & logistics class at PSU and one of my group mates was from Yemen. He was Muslim and I remember that he also played Spanish guitar. Anyway, at some point we were discussing electives and philosophy class came up. He said that he signed up for philosophy class and enjoyed it for a while but then realized that it was causing him to question his religious beliefs and it made him uncomfortable so he dropped it…He didn’t want to expose himself to these other ways of thinking.”
How sad to be so threatened by information that one is afraid to even look at differing beliefs or challenging questions. How sad to be so caught up in one way of being that you simply can’t allow yourself to open up to other ways…or even to just understand them.
Aren’t you sick of polarity? Aren’t you sick of being the puppets of rich politicians and lobbyists who love to make you hate each other (Red vs Blue: The Uncivil War)? Don’t you think it benefits powerful people & businesses (including powerful foreign interests) to have you so divided into two opposite factions who rely on stereotypes and hearsay; rather than cold hard reason? Do you really believe half of the US is evil or stupid? Common… Stop being sheep, stop categorically hating each other, and start talking (and listening)… calmly, rationally, without defensiveness and name-calling.
The middle is messy. The middle does not have a clear purpose, agenda or assumptions. The middle takes energy and requires effort. The middle requires you to open up and explore...to believe in the good intentions of others and try to understand other points of view. Come roll around with me in the middle…get dirty and let go.
Monday, July 31, 2006
On Communes and Consumerism...
Recently a dear friend conveyed via email, with much cynicism (I know this because he provided cynicism tone cueing, between < > marks), “But that is the American way, no? Doesn't matter if the community has something available that would fit the need at hand, we want to have one of our own regardless.”
His commentary arose from a joint camping trip where he, and his family, arrived less equipped than they’d have preferred and subsequently utilized our (and others’) resources to compensate. Afterwards, they went shopping and purchased their own related supplies—such as a camp stove and tent—though these things had been available through borrowing. (He later corrected me and suggested that the commentary also arose from other trips and borrowing...not just this one)
I’ve been pondering his commentary, my own views on sharing, and “The American Way.” My initial (and default) response to his sentiment was that perhaps we did not share as amiably as we should have… My husband and I are only children, after all, and sharing is not something that comes naturally to us. I interpreted it (through my window of guilt) as a suggestion that, since we had the items available, there should be no need to double up and we should be more giving.
Ideally, this is true and for the most part, we are happy to share (once we get past the primal, child-like, internal response of “Mine!”). Also, these friends are usually quite prepared and are very generous people, so it was no real burden to help them. I’m working to be more generous and altruistic…or at least at my façade of being so.
So, my guilt aside, is it The American Way to desire one’s own possessions even if, as he put it, the “community” has them available? Or is it more that we desire others to acquire their own possessions because we don’t want to have to share ours? What are the uniquely American values that contribute to this phenomenon?
Two primary ideals come to mind: self-sufficiency and fairness. Our country exists primarily due to self sufficiency. The initial colonists did not have a tax structure that provided human services, roadways, police protection, food boxes, disaster intervention, etc. I’m sure they were neighborly to an extent, but also had to have the ability to take care of themselves when isolated from others. The same is true of the Native Americans…communal in a sense, but also able to be self sufficient and also willing to contribute. Additionally, this need for self-sufficiency has been reinforced by our history… The Revolutionary War—cutting off our dependency on Brittan. The Civil War—dog eat dog nastiness that called upon the self-sufficiency of all Americans. The Great Depression…where Americans were provided (by Franklin D. Roosevelt) with the opportunity to work for their self-sufficiency.
As to fairness, I can imagine that the first time someone on the Oregon Trail asked their neighboring schooner mates to borrow some meat, meat was provided. The second time, meat was provided but with some grumbling… The third time, I’m sure a gun was offered with the advice, “Get your own damned meat.” Americans are willing to share to a point, as long as there is balance. You borrow eggs from me, I borrow sugar from you…Everyone is fine. You borrow eggs from me, then some sugar, then some flour, oil, a pan…my recipe book, oven, etc…. You’ll have a cake, but I no longer answer the door when you come over.
Yes, we are consumers, capitalists and materialists. Bad dog, no biscuit. However, we also—for the most part—do a pretty decent job of holding our own. In turn, we feel ownership which leads to willingness to protect what we’ve earned, which affords some stability.
OK, well, most Americans.Of course there is the growing demographic (and those sympathetic to them) who believe they should be taken care of…that it’s the government’s job to provide for all their needs, under all circumstances, and to their specifications. Folks who see all property as “community property,” who are unwilling to buck up and figure out how to contribute and who resent those who would rather not share with those who offer nothing in return. I used to think these were isolated, freak, people—and most social service money went to those who truly need and appreciate it. But now I see the enormous financial burden of supporting a population who not only takes and takes, but who complain and complain that they aren’t getting enough.
I’ve worked in social work and government too long, obviously. Where did my heart go? (looking around…sighing)
OK, so, right… The American Way. Let’s loose any expectations for Utopia… we’re human and so, full of flaws and quirks. There is no cosmic right-way of living or ordering ourselves. We are all just travelers and lucky to be here at all. I say, let’s be easy on ourselves…try to share when we can, borrow humbly when we need to, work for (and advocate for) self-sufficiency, and hope for the best. It’s OK to want your own things… to want to carve out your own way of navigating your world... In fact, I expect you to. The key is moderation.
But that’s rumination for another day…
His commentary arose from a joint camping trip where he, and his family, arrived less equipped than they’d have preferred and subsequently utilized our (and others’) resources to compensate. Afterwards, they went shopping and purchased their own related supplies—such as a camp stove and tent—though these things had been available through borrowing. (He later corrected me and suggested that the commentary also arose from other trips and borrowing...not just this one)
I’ve been pondering his commentary, my own views on sharing, and “The American Way.” My initial (and default) response to his sentiment was that perhaps we did not share as amiably as we should have… My husband and I are only children, after all, and sharing is not something that comes naturally to us. I interpreted it (through my window of guilt) as a suggestion that, since we had the items available, there should be no need to double up and we should be more giving.
Ideally, this is true and for the most part, we are happy to share (once we get past the primal, child-like, internal response of “Mine!”). Also, these friends are usually quite prepared and are very generous people, so it was no real burden to help them. I’m working to be more generous and altruistic…or at least at my façade of being so.
So, my guilt aside, is it The American Way to desire one’s own possessions even if, as he put it, the “community” has them available? Or is it more that we desire others to acquire their own possessions because we don’t want to have to share ours? What are the uniquely American values that contribute to this phenomenon?
Two primary ideals come to mind: self-sufficiency and fairness. Our country exists primarily due to self sufficiency. The initial colonists did not have a tax structure that provided human services, roadways, police protection, food boxes, disaster intervention, etc. I’m sure they were neighborly to an extent, but also had to have the ability to take care of themselves when isolated from others. The same is true of the Native Americans…communal in a sense, but also able to be self sufficient and also willing to contribute. Additionally, this need for self-sufficiency has been reinforced by our history… The Revolutionary War—cutting off our dependency on Brittan. The Civil War—dog eat dog nastiness that called upon the self-sufficiency of all Americans. The Great Depression…where Americans were provided (by Franklin D. Roosevelt) with the opportunity to work for their self-sufficiency.
As to fairness, I can imagine that the first time someone on the Oregon Trail asked their neighboring schooner mates to borrow some meat, meat was provided. The second time, meat was provided but with some grumbling… The third time, I’m sure a gun was offered with the advice, “Get your own damned meat.” Americans are willing to share to a point, as long as there is balance. You borrow eggs from me, I borrow sugar from you…Everyone is fine. You borrow eggs from me, then some sugar, then some flour, oil, a pan…my recipe book, oven, etc…. You’ll have a cake, but I no longer answer the door when you come over.
Yes, we are consumers, capitalists and materialists. Bad dog, no biscuit. However, we also—for the most part—do a pretty decent job of holding our own. In turn, we feel ownership which leads to willingness to protect what we’ve earned, which affords some stability.
OK, well, most Americans.
I’ve worked in social work and government too long, obviously. Where did my heart go? (looking around…sighing)
OK, so, right… The American Way. Let’s loose any expectations for Utopia… we’re human and so, full of flaws and quirks. There is no cosmic right-way of living or ordering ourselves. We are all just travelers and lucky to be here at all. I say, let’s be easy on ourselves…try to share when we can, borrow humbly when we need to, work for (and advocate for) self-sufficiency, and hope for the best. It’s OK to want your own things… to want to carve out your own way of navigating your world... In fact, I expect you to. The key is moderation.
But that’s rumination for another day…
Monday, July 10, 2006
On Career Development and Destiny...
I’m a talented woman searching for a job title. Raised by a noble public servant and a fastidious housewife, who aspired for me to be a domestic deity with shiny sinks and a herd of angelic children, I had little encouragement for career. Yet, older, realized I’m not cut out for “housewife” (for me, this is the fastest way to crazy) and had this silly idea that my destiny lay in psychology. So I packed up my adjectives and headed to higher education and ultimately a masters in counseling—specifically marriage and family counseling. Neither of which, it turns out, particularly fulfill me.
I currently reside in the job comfort zone of public service. Don’t ask how I got here. Theoretically, it’s a noble career, but it’s not stimulating…and the organizational culture stinks like an incontinent grandpa on a summer’s day. Trust me; I know what those smell like. I’m a square peg amongst rhomboids… I’m wilting fast.
I have an excellent “transferable skill set” but my degree identifies me as a “counselor” and I’m not sure how to “transfer” myself into a new identity. Also, I confess, I’m not entirely sure what identity—if any—to choose. I’ve narrowed my array of options to 4 (well, 5 if you count being too chicken shit to leave one’s current job): Organizational Development Consultant, Communications/PR Person, Writer, or Community College Instructor. Admittedly, a few of those could combine into one diversified career.
However, I’m stymied by fears. Fear #1) I won’t like any career and will never be happy no matter what I do. Fear #2) Nobody will ever hire me to do anything outside of counseling/public services. Fear #3) Oh, man, lots of things…
So, I stand at a miserable crossroads, too afraid to stay put and too afraid to go forward. I mean to really go forward…not just speculate, dabble, throw out statements of intent.
Stay tuned for the metamorphosis.
I currently reside in the job comfort zone of public service. Don’t ask how I got here. Theoretically, it’s a noble career, but it’s not stimulating…and the organizational culture stinks like an incontinent grandpa on a summer’s day. Trust me; I know what those smell like. I’m a square peg amongst rhomboids… I’m wilting fast.
I have an excellent “transferable skill set” but my degree identifies me as a “counselor” and I’m not sure how to “transfer” myself into a new identity. Also, I confess, I’m not entirely sure what identity—if any—to choose. I’ve narrowed my array of options to 4 (well, 5 if you count being too chicken shit to leave one’s current job): Organizational Development Consultant, Communications/PR Person, Writer, or Community College Instructor. Admittedly, a few of those could combine into one diversified career.
However, I’m stymied by fears. Fear #1) I won’t like any career and will never be happy no matter what I do. Fear #2) Nobody will ever hire me to do anything outside of counseling/public services. Fear #3) Oh, man, lots of things…
So, I stand at a miserable crossroads, too afraid to stay put and too afraid to go forward. I mean to really go forward…not just speculate, dabble, throw out statements of intent.
Stay tuned for the metamorphosis.
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