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?
Thursday, August 31, 2006
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.
Friday, June 02, 2006
On Making Memories...
Mil and Fil brought this concept into my life and the older I get, the more I see the value of it.
I’m a creature of comfort or, more accurately, a comfort-addict. I gravitate toward soft perches, a full stomach, sleep and escape from the harsh realities of life. My Jim is even worse about this so together, we are the Lazy Duo. Give us a hard week at work, a night short on sleep or a head cold and you’ll find one or both of us situated in our TV room with a plate of pizza, a glass of wine, and the most unattractive (but comfy) clothing in our closets.
What I’ve come to realize, though, is how little significance my time spent in comfort mode will mean to our family over time. I’ve spend hundreds of evenings like this, and you know, I couldn’t tell you about one of them specifically… No amazing couch night ever registers with me as a profound life experience or makes any difference in my stress level or overall fulfillment. In the moment, I’m cozy but not enriched.
However, I do remember the camping trip where we hiked to the base of a mountain and took photos of a little lake there… then returned to our little RV to find it surrounded by bees. I remember the screaming and crying that ensued, the argument I had with Cassie about running through the bees to get in the camper, the decision to go home and give up… the bumpy drive back down the mountain…
At the time? Frustration and angst… but now, it’s a memory. But what I don’t remember…? That night, after going home… I don’t remember sitting on the couch or what we watched on TV. I know we did it, but it’s gone from my life’s collection… a blank.
I don’t want my life to be a vague memory of the TV room. I don’t want to be so dependent on “comfort” that I end up 90 yrs old, alone and without any sense that I’ve done anything…without many memories to give me a sense that my life was chocked full…
Can one live a full life on a couch? Or is it better to brave discomfort and have something to add to the collection…
Cassie will ride in the Starlight Rose Festival Parade tomorrow. She’ll need to wait 3 hours in the staging area with other 7-9 yr olds, under a poncho, in her red-white-and-blue uniform… she’ll get wet, she’ll get cold…she’ll be tired and she’ll have a breakdown, I’m sure. We’ll get stuck in traffic, we’ll get wet too…we’ll get home late and miss a night of pizza and TV. But we’ll also get to wave at Cassie, to take pictures of her princess wave… to see the National Guard Band and yell at Jesse the drummer and Johnny V.
Making memories…
I’m a creature of comfort or, more accurately, a comfort-addict. I gravitate toward soft perches, a full stomach, sleep and escape from the harsh realities of life. My Jim is even worse about this so together, we are the Lazy Duo. Give us a hard week at work, a night short on sleep or a head cold and you’ll find one or both of us situated in our TV room with a plate of pizza, a glass of wine, and the most unattractive (but comfy) clothing in our closets.
What I’ve come to realize, though, is how little significance my time spent in comfort mode will mean to our family over time. I’ve spend hundreds of evenings like this, and you know, I couldn’t tell you about one of them specifically… No amazing couch night ever registers with me as a profound life experience or makes any difference in my stress level or overall fulfillment. In the moment, I’m cozy but not enriched.
However, I do remember the camping trip where we hiked to the base of a mountain and took photos of a little lake there… then returned to our little RV to find it surrounded by bees. I remember the screaming and crying that ensued, the argument I had with Cassie about running through the bees to get in the camper, the decision to go home and give up… the bumpy drive back down the mountain…
At the time? Frustration and angst… but now, it’s a memory. But what I don’t remember…? That night, after going home… I don’t remember sitting on the couch or what we watched on TV. I know we did it, but it’s gone from my life’s collection… a blank.
I don’t want my life to be a vague memory of the TV room. I don’t want to be so dependent on “comfort” that I end up 90 yrs old, alone and without any sense that I’ve done anything…without many memories to give me a sense that my life was chocked full…
Can one live a full life on a couch? Or is it better to brave discomfort and have something to add to the collection…
Cassie will ride in the Starlight Rose Festival Parade tomorrow. She’ll need to wait 3 hours in the staging area with other 7-9 yr olds, under a poncho, in her red-white-and-blue uniform… she’ll get wet, she’ll get cold…she’ll be tired and she’ll have a breakdown, I’m sure. We’ll get stuck in traffic, we’ll get wet too…we’ll get home late and miss a night of pizza and TV. But we’ll also get to wave at Cassie, to take pictures of her princess wave… to see the National Guard Band and yell at Jesse the drummer and Johnny V.
Making memories…
Thursday, June 01, 2006
On Work and Toys...
It’s a crazy Thursday at work. One of those days that seems to involve some sort of lunar influence or mass intoxication of the public that results in weirdness not encountered on typical days. One of those days when just about every issue has to be run by a supervisor and the supervisor has to run it by her supervisor and, still, everyone is stumped.
But it’s 5:00 and I’m going home…
I bought a toy that is scheduled to arrive on 6/8. I'm kid again...
www.xootr.com
Now I can cruize with my 7 year old playmate. Wha Hooooo!
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
On Painting and Performace Reviews...
I’m tired today… nearly falling asleep at my desk and I had coffee this morning. It’s post-Memorial Tuesday and I work to recover from a long weekend of house painting and a 1 year job performance review. Please tell me it’s 5:00…no? Sigh…
Painting was productive and fun, but we were probably too ambitious. Luckily our college student 30-something friend, Johnny, was able to help out… he’s a workhorse. Tonight, we’ll be doing some more work before the forecasted rain arrives… Summer in the NW doesn’t really start until after July 5th.
Performance review was OK…I’ve had them every 3 months for the year I’ve worked here. I love government.
Apparently most of my skills “exceed expectations,” none were “outstanding,” but I was given a “meets expectations” for my interpersonal skills. Gah! 1st of all, of all my skills, I’d sorta put “interpersonal skills” at the top… I mean, I have oodles of weaknesses but this had not traditionally been one of them. Yeah, I’m aware that it was not a bad rating… but for an overachiever like me? I know what “meets expectations” means.
Other than one incident where I took the initiative to suggest a tentative agenda for a bi-weekly team meeting and everyone couldn’t believe I did this without having a meeting with them first… I couldn’t think of any other reason why my interpersonal skills need work. Neither could my boss, ‘cause I actually argued about this and he ended up changing it to “exceeds…” I’ve never had to argue about my performance before.
I guess, in a cosmic sense, this is a good learning experience for me. I’m studying Organizational Development (The field of OD is concerned with the performance, development, and effectiveness of human organizations—Google definition) so this occurrence I’m having of not fitting with my current organizational culture lends some wisdom and empathy… yeah, that’s it.
Will my ego survive 2006? Tune in to find out…
Painting was productive and fun, but we were probably too ambitious. Luckily our college student 30-something friend, Johnny, was able to help out… he’s a workhorse. Tonight, we’ll be doing some more work before the forecasted rain arrives… Summer in the NW doesn’t really start until after July 5th.
Performance review was OK…I’ve had them every 3 months for the year I’ve worked here. I love government.
Apparently most of my skills “exceed expectations,” none were “outstanding,” but I was given a “meets expectations” for my interpersonal skills. Gah! 1st of all, of all my skills, I’d sorta put “interpersonal skills” at the top… I mean, I have oodles of weaknesses but this had not traditionally been one of them. Yeah, I’m aware that it was not a bad rating… but for an overachiever like me? I know what “meets expectations” means.
Other than one incident where I took the initiative to suggest a tentative agenda for a bi-weekly team meeting and everyone couldn’t believe I did this without having a meeting with them first… I couldn’t think of any other reason why my interpersonal skills need work. Neither could my boss, ‘cause I actually argued about this and he ended up changing it to “exceeds…” I’ve never had to argue about my performance before.
I guess, in a cosmic sense, this is a good learning experience for me. I’m studying Organizational Development (The field of OD is concerned with the performance, development, and effectiveness of human organizations—Google definition) so this occurrence I’m having of not fitting with my current organizational culture lends some wisdom and empathy… yeah, that’s it.
Will my ego survive 2006? Tune in to find out…
Saturday, May 27, 2006
On Black Gold and HP...
There is an icon blinking in my systray. It sounds like a personal problem and it is one, but there is a solution. It’s time to change my printer’s colored ink cartridge (uh…ink cartridge of color). However, I have not done so, though it’s been blinking for three weeks.
I’ve grown sort of attached to it; like it’s a little friend, or hostage. It flashes from miniature picture of printer to miniature picture of the earth-next-to-a-yellow-caution-triangle. Who comes up with these icons? It’s hungry…hungry for color, and I deny it every day. No color, no color for you. Mwahahahaha! (evil laugh).
I’m procrastinating because printers are obnoxious. First of all, the ink is priced like it’s some sort of rare, non-renewable resource. It is excruciatingly painful to purchase an ink cartridge, especially one of color, because I can’t begin to imagine how ink can possibly be worth that much money. So I’ve become a printing miser; only allowing my friends and family to print using the “fast draft” option. They are only allowed to print when it’s absolutely necessary, and multiple paged documents must be printed 4 to a page. Hey, they can read it with a magnifying glass, ok? They’ll live.
Besides, when you go to the local Officey Mega-Depot-Max-Mart, the ink is kept behind the customer service desk. So you can’t shoplift it. If it wasn’t so expensive, nobody would even think of shoplifting ink. Instead, you have to grovel with the clerk to get just the right number for your particular printer and, HP forbid, you neglect to remember your printer name and number (which is usually something like the 45983D-Z~Printpro 500x.2 SuPerPhoToMax G12-1972abceasyas123.), because you’ll never figure out which cartridge number goes with it. The clerk gets all flustered and won’t share the look-up book with you, even though you know you could probably figure it out if you could only spend a moment flipping through the pictures to locate your bad-boy. The clerk gets all haughty, “Well is it a PrintPro or a Photopro? Jet or lazer? Did you read the instruction manual? Do you know anything?” And then I say something like, “I went to college minimum-wage boy, and if you’d hand over the stupid guide book, I’d be able to throw it at you.”
Eventually, I get the ink ingot home and it’s time to put it into my printer. However, I open up the font and it starts to have seizures; buzzing back and forth, blinking lights, the display reprimands “CAUTION PRINTER HOOD OPEN! MISSILES WILL LAUNCH IN 10 SECONDS, 9, 8, 7…” I reach for the empty unit, unlatch it and remove it, carefully, like I’m performing internal surgery. An attractive nurse dabs my forehead. I transplant the new cartridge in and all appears fine, until I close the hatch. Now the thing hums, stops and beeps long and hard. In the display it says, “PRINT CARTRIDGE INSERTED IMPROPERLY YOU MORON. WHY DON’T YOU READ THE MANUAL, FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIFE.” So, I open the hood, remove the cartridge, shove it back in a few times, and close it up. It whimpers, but otherwise appears to be satisfied.
My computer pipes up next with an ultra helpful utility window that proudly announces, “A new printer cartridge has been installed!!” No, really? You don’t say! Then it asks, “Align printer cartridges?” It all seems so innocent and meaningful and I think, “Sure, I can see how that’s important;” but when I click OK the printer once again freaks out and then, to my horror, starts PRINTING! Printing a lot. Printing page after page of high quality colored dots, squares, Mona Lisa’s, numbers, letters, tildes, punctuation cussing….It won’t stop, it’s using all the ink I just bought for it…cancel, cancel, cancel…I’m frantically mousing the cancel button on my computer. I try the cancel button on the printer but it laughs at me…beep ha ha, beep ha ha. I turn it off, which stops it, but when I turn it on again, it keeps going! Ahhhhhhhhh. Then suddenly, it stops. I now have a booklet of fresh photo-quality colored gibberish and all is quiet. I cry.
So go ahead and blink at me. I know what you’re up to ambiguous icon, and I’m not falling for it, you ink vampire. I’ll change you when I’m darned tootin’ ready and not a minute sooner. Beep, ha ha.
mln
I’ve grown sort of attached to it; like it’s a little friend, or hostage. It flashes from miniature picture of printer to miniature picture of the earth-next-to-a-yellow-caution-triangle. Who comes up with these icons? It’s hungry…hungry for color, and I deny it every day. No color, no color for you. Mwahahahaha! (evil laugh).
I’m procrastinating because printers are obnoxious. First of all, the ink is priced like it’s some sort of rare, non-renewable resource. It is excruciatingly painful to purchase an ink cartridge, especially one of color, because I can’t begin to imagine how ink can possibly be worth that much money. So I’ve become a printing miser; only allowing my friends and family to print using the “fast draft” option. They are only allowed to print when it’s absolutely necessary, and multiple paged documents must be printed 4 to a page. Hey, they can read it with a magnifying glass, ok? They’ll live.
Besides, when you go to the local Officey Mega-Depot-Max-Mart, the ink is kept behind the customer service desk. So you can’t shoplift it. If it wasn’t so expensive, nobody would even think of shoplifting ink. Instead, you have to grovel with the clerk to get just the right number for your particular printer and, HP forbid, you neglect to remember your printer name and number (which is usually something like the 45983D-Z~Printpro 500x.2 SuPerPhoToMax G12-1972abceasyas123.), because you’ll never figure out which cartridge number goes with it. The clerk gets all flustered and won’t share the look-up book with you, even though you know you could probably figure it out if you could only spend a moment flipping through the pictures to locate your bad-boy. The clerk gets all haughty, “Well is it a PrintPro or a Photopro? Jet or lazer? Did you read the instruction manual? Do you know anything?” And then I say something like, “I went to college minimum-wage boy, and if you’d hand over the stupid guide book, I’d be able to throw it at you.”
Eventually, I get the ink ingot home and it’s time to put it into my printer. However, I open up the font and it starts to have seizures; buzzing back and forth, blinking lights, the display reprimands “CAUTION PRINTER HOOD OPEN! MISSILES WILL LAUNCH IN 10 SECONDS, 9, 8, 7…” I reach for the empty unit, unlatch it and remove it, carefully, like I’m performing internal surgery. An attractive nurse dabs my forehead. I transplant the new cartridge in and all appears fine, until I close the hatch. Now the thing hums, stops and beeps long and hard. In the display it says, “PRINT CARTRIDGE INSERTED IMPROPERLY YOU MORON. WHY DON’T YOU READ THE MANUAL, FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIFE.” So, I open the hood, remove the cartridge, shove it back in a few times, and close it up. It whimpers, but otherwise appears to be satisfied.
My computer pipes up next with an ultra helpful utility window that proudly announces, “A new printer cartridge has been installed!!” No, really? You don’t say! Then it asks, “Align printer cartridges?” It all seems so innocent and meaningful and I think, “Sure, I can see how that’s important;” but when I click OK the printer once again freaks out and then, to my horror, starts PRINTING! Printing a lot. Printing page after page of high quality colored dots, squares, Mona Lisa’s, numbers, letters, tildes, punctuation cussing….It won’t stop, it’s using all the ink I just bought for it…cancel, cancel, cancel…I’m frantically mousing the cancel button on my computer. I try the cancel button on the printer but it laughs at me…beep ha ha, beep ha ha. I turn it off, which stops it, but when I turn it on again, it keeps going! Ahhhhhhhhh. Then suddenly, it stops. I now have a booklet of fresh photo-quality colored gibberish and all is quiet. I cry.
So go ahead and blink at me. I know what you’re up to ambiguous icon, and I’m not falling for it, you ink vampire. I’ll change you when I’m darned tootin’ ready and not a minute sooner. Beep, ha ha.
mln
Friday, May 26, 2006
On annoying things about Portland…
I live here because our jobs are here. I’d really rather be East of the Cascades or Montana or even Central Washington…my spirit is really more about pine trees, mountains and wide open spaces than coffee shops, concrete and traffic jams.
But apparently I also value money so we’re here…for better and worse.
Portland is a weird place. People actually have bumper stickers that say “Keep Portland Weird” as if there is some threat to weirdness… like the city is going to be littered with sanity and we’d better work to keep things as absurd as possible. Great.
The worse thing about Portland is how everyone takes themselves so seriously… I mean, Portlanders seriously need to get over themselves.
Bicyclists, for example. It’s not about just riding one’s bike for fun and fitness… now bicyclists behave as if they are a protected minority. They protest stuff. They especially like to be in the way of vehicles then they complain and get all haughty when they are hit by vehicles. I mean, I’ve been a rider of bikes since I was 6 and I learned early on to ride way to the side (THE RIGHT SIDE) of the road. I’ve always tried to stay out of the way of cars, silly me, and—gasp—use hand signals to indicate when I needed to stop and turn.
Portland bicyclists are rude and stupid. They ride slowly, in the middle of traffic lanes, and refuse to let vehicles pass them. They cut people off, ignore traffic rules, and create a danger to themselves and others. Is it so freakin’ difficult to stay to the side of the road and be courteous? I know there are drivers who are rude to cyclists but I’m pretty respectful of them and still I end up behind some jerkwad going 2 mph when he/she could simply move to the side and let me pass. My greatest fun is getting in front of them, going really slowly, and not letting them pass me.
Bikers want more “rights” and a city with more bike friendly features. Great, I’m all for this. However, when you have a freakin’ bike lane—USE IT. You want drivers to respect you but you fail to respect others or traffic laws. And, another thing, maybe we should license bicycles. My car registration fees help pay for the roads… maybe bike registrations could help pay for bike lanes…and force cyclists to follow traffic laws. Cyclists should be ticketed when they don’t follow the rules…hey another source of revenue to pay for our overpriced schools and “diversity” programs.
Portland pedestrians are jerks too. When I cross a street, I use the crosswalk and the signals and I hurry. Most Portlanders fail to do any of these things and saunter across the streets… deliberately trying to piss people off. The trouble is that some dunderhead politicians decided to give pedestrians the right of way no matter what… meaning, walking people do not have to follow any traffic laws and drivers are at fault anytime a walker is injured. Good grief.
Those bumper stickers might as well say “Keep Portland Rude.” What happened to common courtesy? My parents taught me to respect others… when I walk through the malls, I move aside for people… when somebody lets me change lanes, I wave… when it’s night-time, I turn down my music… I actually give people a friendly smile now and then…silly me.
Don’t even get me started about Portland’s absurd government, it’s fascination with political correctness and it’s judgmental liberals. I mean, I always thought being liberal meant tolerance and stuff… you know, being laid back. Portland libs are almost as obnoxious as fundamentalist conservatives. Fundies want to regulate my sex life, child bearing, and religion… PDX libs want to regulate my diet, transportation, shopping locations and reverence for “diversity.”
Common courtesy. Live and let live. Are those concepts so bloody impossible? Apparently… here in Portland… they are.
I’d really rather write humor… and I will but, man, sometimes I gotta just complain.
But apparently I also value money so we’re here…for better and worse.
Portland is a weird place. People actually have bumper stickers that say “Keep Portland Weird” as if there is some threat to weirdness… like the city is going to be littered with sanity and we’d better work to keep things as absurd as possible. Great.
The worse thing about Portland is how everyone takes themselves so seriously… I mean, Portlanders seriously need to get over themselves.
Bicyclists, for example. It’s not about just riding one’s bike for fun and fitness… now bicyclists behave as if they are a protected minority. They protest stuff. They especially like to be in the way of vehicles then they complain and get all haughty when they are hit by vehicles. I mean, I’ve been a rider of bikes since I was 6 and I learned early on to ride way to the side (THE RIGHT SIDE) of the road. I’ve always tried to stay out of the way of cars, silly me, and—gasp—use hand signals to indicate when I needed to stop and turn.
Portland bicyclists are rude and stupid. They ride slowly, in the middle of traffic lanes, and refuse to let vehicles pass them. They cut people off, ignore traffic rules, and create a danger to themselves and others. Is it so freakin’ difficult to stay to the side of the road and be courteous? I know there are drivers who are rude to cyclists but I’m pretty respectful of them and still I end up behind some jerkwad going 2 mph when he/she could simply move to the side and let me pass. My greatest fun is getting in front of them, going really slowly, and not letting them pass me.
Bikers want more “rights” and a city with more bike friendly features. Great, I’m all for this. However, when you have a freakin’ bike lane—USE IT. You want drivers to respect you but you fail to respect others or traffic laws. And, another thing, maybe we should license bicycles. My car registration fees help pay for the roads… maybe bike registrations could help pay for bike lanes…and force cyclists to follow traffic laws. Cyclists should be ticketed when they don’t follow the rules…hey another source of revenue to pay for our overpriced schools and “diversity” programs.
Portland pedestrians are jerks too. When I cross a street, I use the crosswalk and the signals and I hurry. Most Portlanders fail to do any of these things and saunter across the streets… deliberately trying to piss people off. The trouble is that some dunderhead politicians decided to give pedestrians the right of way no matter what… meaning, walking people do not have to follow any traffic laws and drivers are at fault anytime a walker is injured. Good grief.
Those bumper stickers might as well say “Keep Portland Rude.” What happened to common courtesy? My parents taught me to respect others… when I walk through the malls, I move aside for people… when somebody lets me change lanes, I wave… when it’s night-time, I turn down my music… I actually give people a friendly smile now and then…silly me.
Don’t even get me started about Portland’s absurd government, it’s fascination with political correctness and it’s judgmental liberals. I mean, I always thought being liberal meant tolerance and stuff… you know, being laid back. Portland libs are almost as obnoxious as fundamentalist conservatives. Fundies want to regulate my sex life, child bearing, and religion… PDX libs want to regulate my diet, transportation, shopping locations and reverence for “diversity.”
Common courtesy. Live and let live. Are those concepts so bloody impossible? Apparently… here in Portland… they are.
I’d really rather write humor… and I will but, man, sometimes I gotta just complain.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
On American Idol and Validation...
We were couch-side for every episode this season and I had my favorite picked from the beginning… Finally a singer I could relate to and one who makes the kind of music I like…and who has an interesting character to go along with it.
He’s certainly the whole package but not the one AI pushes every season and not the one record producers force feed us these days. I’d internalized my lack of congruence with pop music… thought I was square ‘cause I didn’t go ape doo over the wailing divas or the hip-hopsters. Every time I hear Mariah or Whitney or Celine… I want to kick a dog. And, I like dogs. Same goes for those insipid “boy” voices.
I’m old school. I like singer/songwriters who put pen to paper, fingers to strings, and sing about what they know… who maybe, you know, play an instrument or two and whose voices soothe me. I love AI but it really ought to be called American Karaoke…Everytime one of the judges tells a singer they sounded like karaoke, I think…duh, this is karaoke. It’s the biggest karaoke competition in the world. Worse, it seems to have a most limited song-book.
Yet, in spite of AI’s limited vision (don’t even get me started about the age restrictions); we Americans elected a mature, dorky, Southern white-boy who is about as far from the pop-skanks as one could get. I love the message this sends to record producers and music moguls. Guess what? We’re sick of the junk you’ve been throwing at us for years… sick of the Brittany’s and Timberlakes… sick of the “runs” that give us the runs.
I hope Taylor’s success signals a return to real music and real musicians…not prepackaged Johnny Bravo’s. I also hope Taylor gets to write his music…share some of himself rather than performing somebody else’s idea of “what America wants to hear.” His prepackaged single, “Do I Make You Proud,” is OK; largely ‘cause he has the talent to infuse something personal into it but I’d much rather hear the song he’d write about it all.
Personally, I feel validated. To all you jerks who made me feel ridiculous for liking my old-school music…to all you record people who think only bubblegum youngsters sell records…and to all you radio stations who play absolute crap… Two words: Taylor Hicks. America voted. Please pay attention.
He’s certainly the whole package but not the one AI pushes every season and not the one record producers force feed us these days. I’d internalized my lack of congruence with pop music… thought I was square ‘cause I didn’t go ape doo over the wailing divas or the hip-hopsters. Every time I hear Mariah or Whitney or Celine… I want to kick a dog. And, I like dogs. Same goes for those insipid “boy” voices.
I’m old school. I like singer/songwriters who put pen to paper, fingers to strings, and sing about what they know… who maybe, you know, play an instrument or two and whose voices soothe me. I love AI but it really ought to be called American Karaoke…Everytime one of the judges tells a singer they sounded like karaoke, I think…duh, this is karaoke. It’s the biggest karaoke competition in the world. Worse, it seems to have a most limited song-book.
Yet, in spite of AI’s limited vision (don’t even get me started about the age restrictions); we Americans elected a mature, dorky, Southern white-boy who is about as far from the pop-skanks as one could get. I love the message this sends to record producers and music moguls. Guess what? We’re sick of the junk you’ve been throwing at us for years… sick of the Brittany’s and Timberlakes… sick of the “runs” that give us the runs.
I hope Taylor’s success signals a return to real music and real musicians…not prepackaged Johnny Bravo’s. I also hope Taylor gets to write his music…share some of himself rather than performing somebody else’s idea of “what America wants to hear.” His prepackaged single, “Do I Make You Proud,” is OK; largely ‘cause he has the talent to infuse something personal into it but I’d much rather hear the song he’d write about it all.
Personally, I feel validated. To all you jerks who made me feel ridiculous for liking my old-school music…to all you record people who think only bubblegum youngsters sell records…and to all you radio stations who play absolute crap… Two words: Taylor Hicks. America voted. Please pay attention.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Let my ruminating begin...
So, blogging... Everyone's doing it. I mean, the Chief Meteorologist on Newschannel 8 does it. Who knew 'sunbreaks' could be blog worthy--but there it is and here I am.
I am one of those people who "should be writing"... you know, for money, but am instead a government employee doing a job largely unrelated to the masters degree I still owe oodles of money on. Of course, this means I need a distraction... something to fiddle with at work when I'm bored out of my mind.
Instead of writing for money, I'll be writing for amusement at taxpayer expense. Great. OK, OK, only on my breaks, Big Brother.
I write humor... well, I've written humor. I'd say about 8 humor columns total. I am not prolific, which is reason #1 why I am also not published. Reason #2 involves a lovely combination of lethargy and fear that outweigh my drive for marketing myself. Reason #3 would be my lack of ability to commit to a writing genre...columns, articles...novels?
Perhaps the act of writing regularly and sharing it will kick my tail into writing professionally. Blog = Magic Wand?
Aside from my work, parenthood, wifely duties... my primary hobby is rumination. I should learn guitar, golf more, take up tatting... but I mostly spend my time in my head worrying about, well, everything. Friends' romances, my parents' disapproval, politics, past behavior, American Idol...all there, all the time... churning about like, uh, things that churn... maybe butter. Nah, too cliche.
My blog is the written manifestation of my ruminations... for better and worse. I hope good can come of it... for me, for you...for the universe, really.
I'm different now. I blog.
I am one of those people who "should be writing"... you know, for money, but am instead a government employee doing a job largely unrelated to the masters degree I still owe oodles of money on. Of course, this means I need a distraction... something to fiddle with at work when I'm bored out of my mind.
Instead of writing for money, I'll be writing for amusement at taxpayer expense. Great. OK, OK, only on my breaks, Big Brother.
I write humor... well, I've written humor. I'd say about 8 humor columns total. I am not prolific, which is reason #1 why I am also not published. Reason #2 involves a lovely combination of lethargy and fear that outweigh my drive for marketing myself. Reason #3 would be my lack of ability to commit to a writing genre...columns, articles...novels?
Perhaps the act of writing regularly and sharing it will kick my tail into writing professionally. Blog = Magic Wand?
Aside from my work, parenthood, wifely duties... my primary hobby is rumination. I should learn guitar, golf more, take up tatting... but I mostly spend my time in my head worrying about, well, everything. Friends' romances, my parents' disapproval, politics, past behavior, American Idol...all there, all the time... churning about like, uh, things that churn... maybe butter. Nah, too cliche.
My blog is the written manifestation of my ruminations... for better and worse. I hope good can come of it... for me, for you...for the universe, really.
I'm different now. I blog.
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