I found myself at the bookstore again tonight after a noisy dinner at Chucky E. Cheese with my family and some friends, a car ride home in which Rachael vomited up two 8 oz. bottles of whole milk, and a trip to Babies ‘R’ Us to purchase a new car seat, because the old one was a piece of shit.
As I sipped my usual latte and strolled around the best seller tables in an attempt to blow off the evening’s steam, I began to take a serious look at the titles and subjects on display. I’ve been writing for over 13 years now doing mostly journalism. A little under a year ago, after many years of nagging by friends and family members, I decided to start writing a book. I’m nearly finished, but as I’m browsing through these hit titles, I began to wonder if my book has what it takes to make an appearance on the coveted tables near the front door of the Borders.
My book is about a young, female music journalist who begins her career at a top entertainment magazine. This is a plus, because I notice most of the fiction books in the bookstore’s prime real estate area are about women. Unfortunately for me, my character is only a bit naïve, but very confident and goal-oriented. Most of the bitches that appear in the front table books are either middle-aged and desperate, or they are big-time whores with confidence in a snazzy business suit. I’ve met many women in my days, but I’ve either missed the boat entirely, run with the wrong crowd, or wasn’t paying attention, because I’ve never come across any women like the ones featured in these books. All of the middle-aged women (whatever the hell middle-aged is) I know are confident and goal-oriented, but they are far from desperate. The gals that don the stylish business suits, in my world, are confident as well, but they aren’t really all that whorish.
My book features a man as the other main character, but again, I come into conflict with the men of these best sellers. The man I’m writing about is successful and kind of a control freak. He is handsome, talented, and somewhat difficult. Unfortunately for me, again, he is not a vampire, a wizard, a redneck, or a Republican who secretly hates women and wants the world to go back to the 1950s. My fictional guy is a musician, and has deep feelings, but doesn’t get all emotional and sappy. He doesn’t have a mysterious past, and he wasn’t a Viking in a former life.
No one in my book ends up dead or murdering anyone else, and although it does have some killer sex scenes, nobody gets tied up or asphyxiated. I don’t talk about ending a war, starting a war, or look back on a civil, Vietnam, or Iraqi war. My book doesn’t cover miracle health cures, or tell people how to lose weight, but if you read it while drinking a full glass of water per chapter, it will cleanse your system.
I left the bookstore a bit discouraged, because my book doesn’t seem to fit in with these other titles. Maybe for my next book, I’ll write a story about a former aging model who happens to be heiress to a fashion industry fortune. She’s a ball-breaker at the office, but she secretly wants to be dominated and loved by a hunky, sensitive, Nordic vampire. They end up in bed together quite often, but her childhood baggage always gets in the way and can only be subdued by a trip to the overpriced shoe store with her vacuous friends who are also former models and heiresses to family fortunes. She and the Nordic vampire split up and after she fucks half of Manhattan or Beverly Hills, decides that no one revs her engine like her blood-sucking, blue-eyed stud, and they get back together. They buy a large mansion in a neighborhood with other large mansions, because she finds out that while conjuring up a spell, he accidentally invented mace and has more money than she does, so if her fortunes ever run out, he can take care of her. In the epilogue they have a gorgeous baby and within two days, she fits back into her stylish new clothes. They dump the kid off with a loving British nanny and sail away on their yacht into the sunset.
I would have to come up with a title that would be catchy enough to wear on a keychain, yet sophisticated enough so that the book wouldn’t seem like a cheesy romance novel. Of course, the word of the hour is now “desperate” so that would have to make its way into the moniker somehow. Maybe I could call the book; Lives and Loves of a Desperate Debutante, or Blood and Desperation, or how about Tales of Magic and Desperate Love.
It would be so easy to take the low, very low, road, but I’ll finish writing my book. It doesn’t have spoiled heiresses with fake problems, or wimpy, hard-bodied men. No one in my book is magic or sucks blood, but it does have a good story about a girl who gets a shot at making her dream a reality, and that’s good enough magic for me.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
The $10 Per Person Freak Show
I’ve never been one to judge by aesthetics, and I have a tremendous amount of disrespect for those who do. However, every year, like some sick bastard with a foot fetish who hangs out at shoe sales, I look forward to the best freak show money can buy. It’s not the Jim Rose Circus Side Show or a two-part Jerry Springer episode…it’s the annual Puyallup Fair.
Growing up in Idaho, the annual fair was a must, not because it was cool or a neat event to attend, it was mostly just because it was the only event to attend. We didn’t really get much in the way of community entertainment that didn’t involve Christian prayer during the days that I resided in the Potato State. I would gather up a few of my good friends, one of which who had use of her mom’s car, and we would get decked out in our blue eye shadow and big hair (mandatory ‘80s fashion) and head to the Western Idaho Fair.
Besides the uber-fattening elephant ears, the best part of the fair has to be the people watching. The biggest freaks of nature turn out for the fair. If you ever want to feel normal and get a phenomenal self-esteem boost, dress in casual duds and take the family to this home-style exhibition of absurd humanity. The first thing you notice is the vast amount of large people. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no coked-up Kate Moss. I’m a 4’11” Italian Jew, which doesn’t give me the genetics to be svelte, but these people are enormous. It’s like a muu muu fashion show at the county fair. I guess in a place where the delicacies include deep fried candy bars and Twinkies, what can you expect.
The people there are also weird-looking in general. As Jeff and I were on our way to the animal barns to expose Rachael to real cows, goats, and sheep, we spotted the most bizarre looking couple I had ever seen, and I’ve seen some pretty fucked up-looking people. He was definitely a nebbish with barely a chin, humungous thick-rimmed glasses, a haircut that looked like it came from a Flowbee, and he was wearing a Jeff Foxworthy shirt (what a shock). The woman standing next to him eating a brick of curly fries had quarter-sized protruding moles on each cheek, I’m not exaggerating. She had a graying, pageboy haircut, and gave her man a run for his money with her thick-rimmed glasses. She was also wearing the signature stretch pants and t-shirt separated by the quintessential fanny pack. They were some site!
County fairs don’t change much from state to state. The Western Idaho Fair that I attended in my girlhood looked nearly identical in respect to its twin in Puyallup, aside from the fact that those attending the Washington fair included black people and Asians. I was also dressed far better at the Washington fair than at the Idaho fair, but I credit that to 15 years and a little maturity. Not that big hair wasn’t absent from this year’s fair, but thankfully, I wasn’t the one wearing it.
Aside from the amusement of viewing crazy-looking strangers, I have always been perplexed by the enormous amount of goth kids that show up at the fair. My best guestimate is that these are rural teens that like myself growing up in Idaho; go to the fair, because it’s the only event to attend. Seattle is a long car ride away, and none of their friends’ moms will lend them the keys to the car. With little options, and a full wardrobe compliments of Hot Topic, they venture to the fair to laugh at their schoolmates in the faux FUBU and Sean John gear, while giving everyone else dirty looks. I feel their pain, and do share a touch of empathy for their misfit-in-a-small-town plight.
Much like everything, age has brought me a new perspective, along with a more sensible color eye shadow. I attend the fair partially to people watch, but also to show my daughter that all cows are not named Connie and don’t speak with a British accent. I feel grateful now going to the fair, because I can finally view the animals and the exhibits as something that is in no way part of my regular life. When I was living in Idaho, I always felt so unsettled about the fact that just down the road from where I lived, on my way to school, I would see those fair animals everywhere. I’m so glad those days are over!
We left the fair and went to dinner at a local diner. As someone trying to watch my weight, the fair cuisine doesn’t exactly jive with my health quest. On our drive back towards Seattle we reviewed all of the animals with a very tired Rachael, and after she fell asleep, Jeff and I laughed about the people we had seen. It was a terrific belly laugh that will carry me over until this time next year, when the $10 per person freak show comes around again.
Growing up in Idaho, the annual fair was a must, not because it was cool or a neat event to attend, it was mostly just because it was the only event to attend. We didn’t really get much in the way of community entertainment that didn’t involve Christian prayer during the days that I resided in the Potato State. I would gather up a few of my good friends, one of which who had use of her mom’s car, and we would get decked out in our blue eye shadow and big hair (mandatory ‘80s fashion) and head to the Western Idaho Fair.
Besides the uber-fattening elephant ears, the best part of the fair has to be the people watching. The biggest freaks of nature turn out for the fair. If you ever want to feel normal and get a phenomenal self-esteem boost, dress in casual duds and take the family to this home-style exhibition of absurd humanity. The first thing you notice is the vast amount of large people. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no coked-up Kate Moss. I’m a 4’11” Italian Jew, which doesn’t give me the genetics to be svelte, but these people are enormous. It’s like a muu muu fashion show at the county fair. I guess in a place where the delicacies include deep fried candy bars and Twinkies, what can you expect.
The people there are also weird-looking in general. As Jeff and I were on our way to the animal barns to expose Rachael to real cows, goats, and sheep, we spotted the most bizarre looking couple I had ever seen, and I’ve seen some pretty fucked up-looking people. He was definitely a nebbish with barely a chin, humungous thick-rimmed glasses, a haircut that looked like it came from a Flowbee, and he was wearing a Jeff Foxworthy shirt (what a shock). The woman standing next to him eating a brick of curly fries had quarter-sized protruding moles on each cheek, I’m not exaggerating. She had a graying, pageboy haircut, and gave her man a run for his money with her thick-rimmed glasses. She was also wearing the signature stretch pants and t-shirt separated by the quintessential fanny pack. They were some site!
County fairs don’t change much from state to state. The Western Idaho Fair that I attended in my girlhood looked nearly identical in respect to its twin in Puyallup, aside from the fact that those attending the Washington fair included black people and Asians. I was also dressed far better at the Washington fair than at the Idaho fair, but I credit that to 15 years and a little maturity. Not that big hair wasn’t absent from this year’s fair, but thankfully, I wasn’t the one wearing it.
Aside from the amusement of viewing crazy-looking strangers, I have always been perplexed by the enormous amount of goth kids that show up at the fair. My best guestimate is that these are rural teens that like myself growing up in Idaho; go to the fair, because it’s the only event to attend. Seattle is a long car ride away, and none of their friends’ moms will lend them the keys to the car. With little options, and a full wardrobe compliments of Hot Topic, they venture to the fair to laugh at their schoolmates in the faux FUBU and Sean John gear, while giving everyone else dirty looks. I feel their pain, and do share a touch of empathy for their misfit-in-a-small-town plight.
Much like everything, age has brought me a new perspective, along with a more sensible color eye shadow. I attend the fair partially to people watch, but also to show my daughter that all cows are not named Connie and don’t speak with a British accent. I feel grateful now going to the fair, because I can finally view the animals and the exhibits as something that is in no way part of my regular life. When I was living in Idaho, I always felt so unsettled about the fact that just down the road from where I lived, on my way to school, I would see those fair animals everywhere. I’m so glad those days are over!
We left the fair and went to dinner at a local diner. As someone trying to watch my weight, the fair cuisine doesn’t exactly jive with my health quest. On our drive back towards Seattle we reviewed all of the animals with a very tired Rachael, and after she fell asleep, Jeff and I laughed about the people we had seen. It was a terrific belly laugh that will carry me over until this time next year, when the $10 per person freak show comes around again.
Sunday, September 25, 2005
Queen of the First Interview
Going back into the work force is still a decision I’m not comfortable with. Jeff and his business partner are planning to launch their delivery service at the beginning of October, and he hasn’t shut up about it. I’m so horribly depressed at being stuck in the house all day that I found myself looking forward to the season premier of Oprah. Rachael is not very stimulated or challenged at home, and is smiling and happy as she waves “goodbye” to me when I drop her off at pre-K two days a week. Yet with all of this, I’m still uneasy about getting a job.
From the time females enter womanhood, they are given many ass-backward messages. You need to make a contribution to society by working a career, yet you need to have children and be a good mother. If you are a housewife, you are wasting your life and talent away, yet raising children is noble. More women should stay home and raise their children, but go ahead and try to live on one income. When my mother and other women were standing up in the ‘70s for choice, I know damn well this isn’t what they had in mind.
I’ve read my Susan Faludi, and I am well aware of the terrible backlash against women in this country, and unfortunately, despite all of Susan’s warnings and awareness, the backlash has worked, but not in the way we thought it would. Women aren’t stopping themselves from pursuing careers, or keeping themselves at a job when they really want to be home, they are doing what they want, but are constantly second guessing their lives.
I want to be at work again, because I like what I do. I’m one of the best fucking event managers you will ever come across, and it’s not an ego thing, I’m really good at it. However, the thought of leaving my daughter in daycare is really nagging at me. Fortunately, since Jeff is starting his business, I now have boot up my ass that I need to plunge head first into the working world again. My main challenge now is making it to the second interview.
As if interviews weren’t torture enough, two are needed nowadays, and I’ve even heard tales of terror from friends of mine that have been through up to eight interviews. I can pretty much size up a person within five minutes, and Human Resources isn’t my field. If a person is willing to keep coming back past five interviews, then they might as well work there. Besides, you never really know what you’re getting from an employee until they start working, anyways, so it’s all just a big guessing game.
I can sit there and tell you until I’m blue in the face that I’m a kick-ass event manager, and for the past two weeks, this is exactly what I’ve done for those organizations that have called me back. However, in retrospect, I think I’ve been all too eloquent about my capabilities. Instead of telling potential employers that when needed, “I can make the event my main focus,” I should say, “I’ve run 15-hour events on three hours of sleep with only two piss breaks.” Maybe I should replace, “my husband is very willing to accommodate childcare needs during events to free me up to give the event my full attention,” to “I look forward to being away from the house for a week straight, and dumping my active toddler on her clueless dad is like icing on the cake!” Basically, I have to translate to my possible future bosses that I’m all too willing to enslave myself to make sure that the event is a success without coming across like I’m giving up too much.
One of the best lessons I learned in life was that, despite loving what I do, I need to love myself more. In my last stint in the music industry, I worked like a slave for a small company that had zero respect for me. I would get yelled at, mistreated, and have enormous amounts of work heaped on me, all the while making just $24,000 per year. In the end, when I finally did find my voice and call them on their obscene workload and lack of pay, it was seen as more of a peasant uprising than a contract negotiation, and we parted ways soon after. I was pleased to learn later that the company cut off their nose to spite their face, and had to hire five people to replace me. As I said before, I am a kick-ass event manager, and I work like a dog.
I’m older and wiser now. I realize that no matter how important and good my job makes me feel, it’s just a job. If it has a negative effect on my family, I will be all too willing to give it up. A wise rabbi once told me that at the end of life, on your deathbed, no one ever says, “I wish I would have spent more time at the office.” I couldn’t agree more, but I would still like to get called back for at least one second interview.
From the time females enter womanhood, they are given many ass-backward messages. You need to make a contribution to society by working a career, yet you need to have children and be a good mother. If you are a housewife, you are wasting your life and talent away, yet raising children is noble. More women should stay home and raise their children, but go ahead and try to live on one income. When my mother and other women were standing up in the ‘70s for choice, I know damn well this isn’t what they had in mind.
I’ve read my Susan Faludi, and I am well aware of the terrible backlash against women in this country, and unfortunately, despite all of Susan’s warnings and awareness, the backlash has worked, but not in the way we thought it would. Women aren’t stopping themselves from pursuing careers, or keeping themselves at a job when they really want to be home, they are doing what they want, but are constantly second guessing their lives.
I want to be at work again, because I like what I do. I’m one of the best fucking event managers you will ever come across, and it’s not an ego thing, I’m really good at it. However, the thought of leaving my daughter in daycare is really nagging at me. Fortunately, since Jeff is starting his business, I now have boot up my ass that I need to plunge head first into the working world again. My main challenge now is making it to the second interview.
As if interviews weren’t torture enough, two are needed nowadays, and I’ve even heard tales of terror from friends of mine that have been through up to eight interviews. I can pretty much size up a person within five minutes, and Human Resources isn’t my field. If a person is willing to keep coming back past five interviews, then they might as well work there. Besides, you never really know what you’re getting from an employee until they start working, anyways, so it’s all just a big guessing game.
I can sit there and tell you until I’m blue in the face that I’m a kick-ass event manager, and for the past two weeks, this is exactly what I’ve done for those organizations that have called me back. However, in retrospect, I think I’ve been all too eloquent about my capabilities. Instead of telling potential employers that when needed, “I can make the event my main focus,” I should say, “I’ve run 15-hour events on three hours of sleep with only two piss breaks.” Maybe I should replace, “my husband is very willing to accommodate childcare needs during events to free me up to give the event my full attention,” to “I look forward to being away from the house for a week straight, and dumping my active toddler on her clueless dad is like icing on the cake!” Basically, I have to translate to my possible future bosses that I’m all too willing to enslave myself to make sure that the event is a success without coming across like I’m giving up too much.
One of the best lessons I learned in life was that, despite loving what I do, I need to love myself more. In my last stint in the music industry, I worked like a slave for a small company that had zero respect for me. I would get yelled at, mistreated, and have enormous amounts of work heaped on me, all the while making just $24,000 per year. In the end, when I finally did find my voice and call them on their obscene workload and lack of pay, it was seen as more of a peasant uprising than a contract negotiation, and we parted ways soon after. I was pleased to learn later that the company cut off their nose to spite their face, and had to hire five people to replace me. As I said before, I am a kick-ass event manager, and I work like a dog.
I’m older and wiser now. I realize that no matter how important and good my job makes me feel, it’s just a job. If it has a negative effect on my family, I will be all too willing to give it up. A wise rabbi once told me that at the end of life, on your deathbed, no one ever says, “I wish I would have spent more time at the office.” I couldn’t agree more, but I would still like to get called back for at least one second interview.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Privacy Rights
I knew when I became a mom that I was going to have to give up a reasonable amount of things. Sleep was something I was resigned to never catch up on, all of my items placed below a two foot surface were fair game, and I was no longer going to be allowed to have my own bowl of ice cream. These things never bothered me, and I was all too willing to make these sacrifices to the goddess of motherhood, but I never expected the bathroom audience.
In the beginning, when Rachael was a newborn, I would put her in her bouncy chair and take her into my small bathroom while I showered. This was a good way for me to keep an eye on her while doing my daily hygiene routine. When she was a little older, I would put her in her swing around 10:00 am and turn on a Baby Einstein video, which would inevitably ease her into her nap. It would also give me exactly 32 minutes to shower, brush my teeth, pee, and put on a small amount of makeup. Those were the easy days.
Now during the daytime I find myself with a “standing room only” audience while I’m trying to do my toilet business. Rachael begins by following me into the bathroom. If I shut the door all the way, my toddler screams and pounds the door with her fists until I am able to hoist myself in a half squat and turn the knob. She is followed by the dog who pants while watching my every move, like I’m some kind of reality tv show about pissing. As I fend my toddler away from unrolling the toilet paper or playing swordfight with the toilet brush, I feel like my privacy is being seriously violated.
I didn’t mind having to listen to Dora the Explorer in my ear constantly or having to figure out the perfect microwave setting for fish sticks or even carrying around a slight resentment towards my husband’s less burdened lifestyle, but having four eyes observe my bathroom habits is a little much. Aside from the toilet audience, Rachael is now a regular fixture when I’m in the shower. I didn’t mind it when she was younger, it was necessary, but now I’m wondering at what age I should kick her out of the bathroom. This comes more into question in the morning when Jeff is showering and Rachael is waving to him through the glass shower doors. At what age can those icky mental scars begin to develop?
We aren’t prudes when it comes to nudity, although we aren’t exhibitionists either. Neither of us is good looking enough to walk around in the buff constantly. I would never lead Rachael to believe in any way that the human body is shameful or sex is bad, but I still shutter as I remember seeing my own mother naked. Thankfully, I never saw my father or stepdad in the raw, because I can’t think of anything more disturbing. I did accidentally walk in on my parents once while they were having sex, and even though I only saw shadows, because the room was dark, it was still unsettling. I think that is one experience that translates no matter who your parents are. Years from now when Tommy Lee and Pamela Anderson’s kids are in college the thought of that video, despite Mom’s expertly hand-crafted tits, and Dad’s way above average schlong, will inevitably make those two boys feel ooky.
I want Rachael to avoid this whole experience, and I would like to start now with her leaving the bathroom while I’m trying to do my toilet business. This won’t be easy, because my daughter is an attention whore with a stubborn streak. I’ll run downstairs for 30 seconds to grab her a bottle, and she’ll be whining and racing right after me, because she doesn’t feel like having me out of her site. At night she sometimes, all but vocally, insists on sleeping in our king sized bed with us, and manages to kick the hell out of us until she has domain over nearly the entire sleeping space. Rachael wants what she wants, despite the needs or urges of others. Getting her to dismiss herself from my pissing presence won’t be an easy task, but I know it’s for her own good.
I’d hate to think that in just a mere 20 years from now she will be sitting in the therapist’s office discussing the ills inflicted on her by Jeff and I, and site my bathroom habits as the major reason for all of her emotional problems. I can just hear her now, “I still can’t go to the bathroom without breaking down into an anxiety attack, because I was in the bathroom constantly with my mother while she was on the toilet and she didn’t care.”
I do care, baby! I really do care, and I don’t want you in here with me anymore. Unload all of the folded shirts out of my dresser drawer, drop half of your dinner from your highchair onto the dog, kick me until I’m bruised while I’m trying to sleep, but for Pete’s sake, get the hell out of the john while I’m trying to get my business done!
In the beginning, when Rachael was a newborn, I would put her in her bouncy chair and take her into my small bathroom while I showered. This was a good way for me to keep an eye on her while doing my daily hygiene routine. When she was a little older, I would put her in her swing around 10:00 am and turn on a Baby Einstein video, which would inevitably ease her into her nap. It would also give me exactly 32 minutes to shower, brush my teeth, pee, and put on a small amount of makeup. Those were the easy days.
Now during the daytime I find myself with a “standing room only” audience while I’m trying to do my toilet business. Rachael begins by following me into the bathroom. If I shut the door all the way, my toddler screams and pounds the door with her fists until I am able to hoist myself in a half squat and turn the knob. She is followed by the dog who pants while watching my every move, like I’m some kind of reality tv show about pissing. As I fend my toddler away from unrolling the toilet paper or playing swordfight with the toilet brush, I feel like my privacy is being seriously violated.
I didn’t mind having to listen to Dora the Explorer in my ear constantly or having to figure out the perfect microwave setting for fish sticks or even carrying around a slight resentment towards my husband’s less burdened lifestyle, but having four eyes observe my bathroom habits is a little much. Aside from the toilet audience, Rachael is now a regular fixture when I’m in the shower. I didn’t mind it when she was younger, it was necessary, but now I’m wondering at what age I should kick her out of the bathroom. This comes more into question in the morning when Jeff is showering and Rachael is waving to him through the glass shower doors. At what age can those icky mental scars begin to develop?
We aren’t prudes when it comes to nudity, although we aren’t exhibitionists either. Neither of us is good looking enough to walk around in the buff constantly. I would never lead Rachael to believe in any way that the human body is shameful or sex is bad, but I still shutter as I remember seeing my own mother naked. Thankfully, I never saw my father or stepdad in the raw, because I can’t think of anything more disturbing. I did accidentally walk in on my parents once while they were having sex, and even though I only saw shadows, because the room was dark, it was still unsettling. I think that is one experience that translates no matter who your parents are. Years from now when Tommy Lee and Pamela Anderson’s kids are in college the thought of that video, despite Mom’s expertly hand-crafted tits, and Dad’s way above average schlong, will inevitably make those two boys feel ooky.
I want Rachael to avoid this whole experience, and I would like to start now with her leaving the bathroom while I’m trying to do my toilet business. This won’t be easy, because my daughter is an attention whore with a stubborn streak. I’ll run downstairs for 30 seconds to grab her a bottle, and she’ll be whining and racing right after me, because she doesn’t feel like having me out of her site. At night she sometimes, all but vocally, insists on sleeping in our king sized bed with us, and manages to kick the hell out of us until she has domain over nearly the entire sleeping space. Rachael wants what she wants, despite the needs or urges of others. Getting her to dismiss herself from my pissing presence won’t be an easy task, but I know it’s for her own good.
I’d hate to think that in just a mere 20 years from now she will be sitting in the therapist’s office discussing the ills inflicted on her by Jeff and I, and site my bathroom habits as the major reason for all of her emotional problems. I can just hear her now, “I still can’t go to the bathroom without breaking down into an anxiety attack, because I was in the bathroom constantly with my mother while she was on the toilet and she didn’t care.”
I do care, baby! I really do care, and I don’t want you in here with me anymore. Unload all of the folded shirts out of my dresser drawer, drop half of your dinner from your highchair onto the dog, kick me until I’m bruised while I’m trying to sleep, but for Pete’s sake, get the hell out of the john while I’m trying to get my business done!
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Two Empty Rooms and a China Cabinet
Nine years ago I went out with my mom and bought a terrific furniture set. It was modern, like me, with brushed metal and glass tables and a fabric pattern that was neutral and sophisticated. This living and dining room furniture set saw me through the last spell of my single girlhood and through my first marriage. When I got divorced, I got out with the furniture set and little else. The lovely set did some time in a storage unit while I got my life together as a newly single woman, then came out and adorned the living and dining rooms once again.
When Jeff and I moved into our house in January, we were advised to ditch the furniture set and turn the “formal living room” into an office. I balked at this idea since my stylish furniture still looked as brand new as the day I bought it, and would look fantastic in the respective rooms. The couch, loveseat and chair looked amazing in the formal living room, and the matching coffee table and end tables complimented the 4-seat dining room set directly across the hall. The fabric pattern matched the paint, and all was well.
Six months later, reality hit. The beautiful formal living room might as well have had a velvet rope on its entry way, because the only time a human being ever stepped foot in that room was when I dusted it every two weeks. While having guests over for dinner, I came to the realization that the glass-top table that sat four people perfectly was now too small for a family of three plus three guests.
After my guests left, I decided to sell my furniture. I looked forward to moving the computer and all of our other scattered office equipment from the television room, and the future room of the possible second child, into its own space. I smiled at the thought of picking out a cherry wood dining room set that had two expandable leaves and would match the china cabinet we got as a wedding gift from Jeff’s elderly aunt. The next day, I put the entire 15-piece furniture set: couch, loveseat, chair, coffee table, two end tables, two table lamps, a floor lamp, a dining room table with four chairs, and a baker’s rack up for sale on Craig’s List.
I sold the set to a young man who works with my friend Monica. She told him about the furniture and the moment the bachelor saw it, he was sold. I can’t blame him, nine years later; it still looks brand new, and is immaculately stylish. He came with a moving van and a friend and took the furniture away last night. I helped them wrap the glass shelves carefully giving them advice on how to transport it with minimal damage all the while feeling a bit melancholy about the whole experience.
For a half hour they moved the set out piece by piece, and I couldn’t shake the weird feeling, until I began telling the young man that this set was my bachelorette furniture. His response hit the nail on the head “so I guess this is the end of an era for you.” That small statement summed up my feelings so concisely. I had been such a hopeful, young woman the day I went with my mother to purchase the furniture. I had my whole life ahead of me, and I was making one of my first purchases as a bonafide grownup. Now as I was selling this set, I was no longer the naïve, young woman with wide-eyes who felt like an imposter in the world of adults. I was an older woman with a family who is still hopeful, but not for just myself. I was trading in my freewheeling, stylish bachelorette furniture for a solid, sophisticated, wood office and dining room set.
As the young man walked out the door with the last of the throw pillows, I wished him well and told him to enjoy the set as much as I did, then I walked around two empty rooms. The former formal living room now office was completely bare, whereas the dining room at least held the china cabinet. I keep the china set we got as a wedding present in that cabinet, along with the antique crystal glassware that Jeff’s grandmother bought when she was first married about 75 years ago. The cabinet contains our Kiddush cup and menorahs, and other precious items that will eventually get passed down to Rachael and her possible sibling.
The selling of my bachelorette furniture to make way for furnishings that would best serve our entire family was such a stark trade off, so paralleling real life. All of the plainly material things, stylish as they are, eventually fall away, and what’s left are those things that survive through the ages. I sold my fabric couch, but I’m left with Grandma Ethel’s crystal. I don’t have my metal and glass end tables, but I do have the Judaica I use every Friday night when I celebrate Shabbos with my little family. I walk around the two empty rooms, a little sad to be letting go of my bachelorette past, but smiling at the thought of many future celebration dinners around my solid, cherry wood dining table, and best of all, I’m still hopeful.
When Jeff and I moved into our house in January, we were advised to ditch the furniture set and turn the “formal living room” into an office. I balked at this idea since my stylish furniture still looked as brand new as the day I bought it, and would look fantastic in the respective rooms. The couch, loveseat and chair looked amazing in the formal living room, and the matching coffee table and end tables complimented the 4-seat dining room set directly across the hall. The fabric pattern matched the paint, and all was well.
Six months later, reality hit. The beautiful formal living room might as well have had a velvet rope on its entry way, because the only time a human being ever stepped foot in that room was when I dusted it every two weeks. While having guests over for dinner, I came to the realization that the glass-top table that sat four people perfectly was now too small for a family of three plus three guests.
After my guests left, I decided to sell my furniture. I looked forward to moving the computer and all of our other scattered office equipment from the television room, and the future room of the possible second child, into its own space. I smiled at the thought of picking out a cherry wood dining room set that had two expandable leaves and would match the china cabinet we got as a wedding gift from Jeff’s elderly aunt. The next day, I put the entire 15-piece furniture set: couch, loveseat, chair, coffee table, two end tables, two table lamps, a floor lamp, a dining room table with four chairs, and a baker’s rack up for sale on Craig’s List.
I sold the set to a young man who works with my friend Monica. She told him about the furniture and the moment the bachelor saw it, he was sold. I can’t blame him, nine years later; it still looks brand new, and is immaculately stylish. He came with a moving van and a friend and took the furniture away last night. I helped them wrap the glass shelves carefully giving them advice on how to transport it with minimal damage all the while feeling a bit melancholy about the whole experience.
For a half hour they moved the set out piece by piece, and I couldn’t shake the weird feeling, until I began telling the young man that this set was my bachelorette furniture. His response hit the nail on the head “so I guess this is the end of an era for you.” That small statement summed up my feelings so concisely. I had been such a hopeful, young woman the day I went with my mother to purchase the furniture. I had my whole life ahead of me, and I was making one of my first purchases as a bonafide grownup. Now as I was selling this set, I was no longer the naïve, young woman with wide-eyes who felt like an imposter in the world of adults. I was an older woman with a family who is still hopeful, but not for just myself. I was trading in my freewheeling, stylish bachelorette furniture for a solid, sophisticated, wood office and dining room set.
As the young man walked out the door with the last of the throw pillows, I wished him well and told him to enjoy the set as much as I did, then I walked around two empty rooms. The former formal living room now office was completely bare, whereas the dining room at least held the china cabinet. I keep the china set we got as a wedding present in that cabinet, along with the antique crystal glassware that Jeff’s grandmother bought when she was first married about 75 years ago. The cabinet contains our Kiddush cup and menorahs, and other precious items that will eventually get passed down to Rachael and her possible sibling.
The selling of my bachelorette furniture to make way for furnishings that would best serve our entire family was such a stark trade off, so paralleling real life. All of the plainly material things, stylish as they are, eventually fall away, and what’s left are those things that survive through the ages. I sold my fabric couch, but I’m left with Grandma Ethel’s crystal. I don’t have my metal and glass end tables, but I do have the Judaica I use every Friday night when I celebrate Shabbos with my little family. I walk around the two empty rooms, a little sad to be letting go of my bachelorette past, but smiling at the thought of many future celebration dinners around my solid, cherry wood dining table, and best of all, I’m still hopeful.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
What the Hell is Up with the Fox Network?
If there’s one thing that has always fried my ass, it is something or someone that is so hypocritical it’s just obvious and disgusting. This is how I feel every time I come across the Fox Network.
On Sunday night, I sat in front of the television excited to watch some animated cynicism. I’ve been a fan of The Simpsons forever, I really like The Family Guy, and this new American Dad show, from the one episode I have seen, looks like a scream. I may be 32 years old, but I loves me some cartoons!
After enjoying the evening of bumbling idiot fathers and husbands, along with a serious and thorough trashing of the ideal behind the American family unit, I sat back thinking about the fact that these shows came from the same entity that produces some of the most ultra-Right Wing radio and news programming on our airwaves. In fact, Fox was the station solely responsible for turning the image of the American father from a noble and wise character that stood strong and took care of his family into Homer Simpson. Fathers in the U.S. are now seen as boobs who are simple-minded at best and try to get away with doing the least amount possible when it comes to the care and raising of their families. Funny, you wouldn’t expect this from the same network that constantly decries the need for a return to “traditional family values” on their news stations.
I remember watching a few episodes of Married…with Children with my mother. She would roll her eyes and chuckle here and there, but after minimal initial viewing lost interest. Mom said she didn’t think it was right to show such a dysfunctional family during the primetime viewing hour, and encouraged me to watch re-runs of The Cosby Show. Although I continued to enjoy the weekly antics of Peggy, Al, Kelly, and Bud, there was something a bit unsettling about the whole changing tide, especially when the contradictory view was vocalized by Rush Limbaugh.
As I learned more about media manipulation, I figured that the Fox Network is doing one of two things: either there is little to no communication between their news departments and their entertainment company, or they are creating a “problem” through entertainment programming that the news department must “fix.” By using their sitcoms to drag American entertainment into the toilet and exploiting the lack of moral values, they are able to go after their more liberal political opponents in their news. They can champion Right Wingers (i.e. the uber-Republicans who give them tax breaks) and make them look like they alone hold the mighty “moral values” sword. If you look at it that way, Fox uses their arrogant hypocrisy to their advantage in a Machiavellian way.
Either Rupert Murdock is an evil genius, or his right hand doesn’t know what the left is jerking. Frankly, the only thing I care about is the fact that there are so many mindless fucks in this country who actually believe that the bullshit that Fox News is shoveling is indeed real news. A few years ago, one of Fox’s own reporters lost her appeal after winning a wrongful termination lawsuit in the state of Florida, and the gist of what came out of that procedure was that it was not illegal for Fox to make up news. Since that winning appeal, they decided to run with it, and have been doing a stellar job of fabricating the news!
With media programming, I’ve always been very much a one-way-or-the-other type of grrl. You are either a neo-con news outlet with your lips sewn right on the ass of the Republican, corporate, evangelical contingent, or you’re an entertainment medium that doesn't take itself too seriously and tries to appeal to degenerate idiots with Homer Simpson ideology who like beer, boobs, and an occasional fart joke. I don’t like it when one entity decides to play both sides of the fence, especially when it eventually translates into legislation. Remember, prior to the Fox Network programming, we didn’t have the television ratings system.
Come this Sunday, I will probably watch The Simpsons, as I have for over a dozen years. I will most likely catch The Family Guy and American Dad, but at least while I’m enjoying the denigration of traditional family values, I’m aware that, much like in Star Wars, there is a dark side waiting to exploit the innocent viewers who long to laugh at the shortcomings of animated characters for the benefit of their own amusement. Unfortunately, that dark side is only a few stations up the satellite frequency and is hosted by that prick, Sean Hannity.
On Sunday night, I sat in front of the television excited to watch some animated cynicism. I’ve been a fan of The Simpsons forever, I really like The Family Guy, and this new American Dad show, from the one episode I have seen, looks like a scream. I may be 32 years old, but I loves me some cartoons!
After enjoying the evening of bumbling idiot fathers and husbands, along with a serious and thorough trashing of the ideal behind the American family unit, I sat back thinking about the fact that these shows came from the same entity that produces some of the most ultra-Right Wing radio and news programming on our airwaves. In fact, Fox was the station solely responsible for turning the image of the American father from a noble and wise character that stood strong and took care of his family into Homer Simpson. Fathers in the U.S. are now seen as boobs who are simple-minded at best and try to get away with doing the least amount possible when it comes to the care and raising of their families. Funny, you wouldn’t expect this from the same network that constantly decries the need for a return to “traditional family values” on their news stations.
I remember watching a few episodes of Married…with Children with my mother. She would roll her eyes and chuckle here and there, but after minimal initial viewing lost interest. Mom said she didn’t think it was right to show such a dysfunctional family during the primetime viewing hour, and encouraged me to watch re-runs of The Cosby Show. Although I continued to enjoy the weekly antics of Peggy, Al, Kelly, and Bud, there was something a bit unsettling about the whole changing tide, especially when the contradictory view was vocalized by Rush Limbaugh.
As I learned more about media manipulation, I figured that the Fox Network is doing one of two things: either there is little to no communication between their news departments and their entertainment company, or they are creating a “problem” through entertainment programming that the news department must “fix.” By using their sitcoms to drag American entertainment into the toilet and exploiting the lack of moral values, they are able to go after their more liberal political opponents in their news. They can champion Right Wingers (i.e. the uber-Republicans who give them tax breaks) and make them look like they alone hold the mighty “moral values” sword. If you look at it that way, Fox uses their arrogant hypocrisy to their advantage in a Machiavellian way.
Either Rupert Murdock is an evil genius, or his right hand doesn’t know what the left is jerking. Frankly, the only thing I care about is the fact that there are so many mindless fucks in this country who actually believe that the bullshit that Fox News is shoveling is indeed real news. A few years ago, one of Fox’s own reporters lost her appeal after winning a wrongful termination lawsuit in the state of Florida, and the gist of what came out of that procedure was that it was not illegal for Fox to make up news. Since that winning appeal, they decided to run with it, and have been doing a stellar job of fabricating the news!
With media programming, I’ve always been very much a one-way-or-the-other type of grrl. You are either a neo-con news outlet with your lips sewn right on the ass of the Republican, corporate, evangelical contingent, or you’re an entertainment medium that doesn't take itself too seriously and tries to appeal to degenerate idiots with Homer Simpson ideology who like beer, boobs, and an occasional fart joke. I don’t like it when one entity decides to play both sides of the fence, especially when it eventually translates into legislation. Remember, prior to the Fox Network programming, we didn’t have the television ratings system.
Come this Sunday, I will probably watch The Simpsons, as I have for over a dozen years. I will most likely catch The Family Guy and American Dad, but at least while I’m enjoying the denigration of traditional family values, I’m aware that, much like in Star Wars, there is a dark side waiting to exploit the innocent viewers who long to laugh at the shortcomings of animated characters for the benefit of their own amusement. Unfortunately, that dark side is only a few stations up the satellite frequency and is hosted by that prick, Sean Hannity.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Baby's First Concert
One of the greatest gifts I can think to give Rachael is the ability to decipher good music from the no-talent, corporate crap that the big labels put out solely for the purposes of making money. On Thursday night, Jeff, Rachael and I ventured out to the Chateau Ste. Michelle Winery in Woodinville to see Tori Amos.
I’ve been a Tori fan since my freshman year of college when I discovered the redheaded siren with a quirky sense of wording and a beautiful voice while watching 120 Minutes on MTV. This was back in the day when MTV used to show videos…videos by artists that weren’t 16 years old and lip syncing or rapping. I went out the next day and bought Little Earthquakes, and that was it, I was a lifelong Tori fan.
On paper, Tori was a great first concert for Rachael. It was at an outside venue, so Rachael could run around until her energy was spent, Tori’s crowd is chuck full of parents who are about my age, and women who most of the time, love kids, and Rachael has always had an affinity for piano music. When she was in the womb and heard piano music, she used to do cartwheels. I always thought that was very cool.
When the time came to head to the show, I was excited to bring my baby to her first live concert. Unfortunately, the drive out there was a nightmare. The traffic at the Woodinville exit was backed up, because of a 4-way stop sign intersection on the way to the venue. Would it have been so hard for the promoter or the city to hire a cop to direct traffic rather than making people sit in their cars for 30 minutes? I guess this is the quality you get when the entire concert promotion industry is owned by two major corporations who care more about money than they do about the artists or providing an enjoyable concert-going experience for fans.
We finally arrived at the show and found a nice spot out in the grass with a full view of the stage. Rachael danced and clapped her hands to the music of the first band; a little acoustic foursome known as The Dittybops. As the sun was setting Ms. Tori took the stage alone. I have seen her on every tour since Little Earthquakes back in 1991, and she usually has a full band with her. This time it was a one woman show, which proves one thing; when an artist is truly an artist, they never cease to amaze and surprise their audience.
Rachael sat on my lap swaying back and forth to the music, clapping her hands, then getting up and dancing. Since Jeff was only at the show to be with me, I was able to put him in charge of watching Rachael. He gladly accepted the duty and actually didn’t mind being at the show, only bitching mildly about the fact that the food was very overpriced.
The evening had been going as anticipated until about an hour into the show, when we thought Rachael would be winding down. The little hamster on crack went into turbo drive taking off and running away every time she had the opportunity. She spun in circles around our blanket like a monkey who just ingested a hit of acid and a double-shot latte. I leaned over to Jeff and made the prediction that our jittery kid would end up conking out five minutes before the show ended, and once again, Mom was right.
Near the end of Tori’s set, Rachael threw herself down, covered herself up with her Cat in the Hat blanket, and went fast to sleep. The show ended right after that song. We waited a few minutes and heard half of the first encore when I told Jeff we should head for the shuttle line. For the second encore Tori launched into “Pretty Good Year” and with my baby passed out cold in my arms, I stood there and enjoyed one last song.
I’m under no illusions that Rachael will remember this show, she’s too young. All I can hope is that by attending this concert and the other musical events I will take her to during these formative years, it will help build her into a young woman with a strong sense of individuality. Instead of listening to the endless string of vacuous, untalented, teenage divas during her ‘tween years, maybe Rachael will opt for a better standard. Perhaps by showing her an example of the true artistry and creativity that Tori Amos represents, Rachael will look at popular culture with the same cynicism and suspicion that I do. Hopefully, this will give her the strength of character she needs to look at pictures of models and airbrushed perfection and laugh it off as ridiculous instead of developing the illusion in her head that she needs to follow suit.
I don’t know if that will happen or if any of these hopes will come true, but I can tell you that one thing is guaranteed: this might have been Rachael’s first Tori Amos concert, but as I live and breathe, it sure as hell won’t be her last.
I’ve been a Tori fan since my freshman year of college when I discovered the redheaded siren with a quirky sense of wording and a beautiful voice while watching 120 Minutes on MTV. This was back in the day when MTV used to show videos…videos by artists that weren’t 16 years old and lip syncing or rapping. I went out the next day and bought Little Earthquakes, and that was it, I was a lifelong Tori fan.
On paper, Tori was a great first concert for Rachael. It was at an outside venue, so Rachael could run around until her energy was spent, Tori’s crowd is chuck full of parents who are about my age, and women who most of the time, love kids, and Rachael has always had an affinity for piano music. When she was in the womb and heard piano music, she used to do cartwheels. I always thought that was very cool.
When the time came to head to the show, I was excited to bring my baby to her first live concert. Unfortunately, the drive out there was a nightmare. The traffic at the Woodinville exit was backed up, because of a 4-way stop sign intersection on the way to the venue. Would it have been so hard for the promoter or the city to hire a cop to direct traffic rather than making people sit in their cars for 30 minutes? I guess this is the quality you get when the entire concert promotion industry is owned by two major corporations who care more about money than they do about the artists or providing an enjoyable concert-going experience for fans.
We finally arrived at the show and found a nice spot out in the grass with a full view of the stage. Rachael danced and clapped her hands to the music of the first band; a little acoustic foursome known as The Dittybops. As the sun was setting Ms. Tori took the stage alone. I have seen her on every tour since Little Earthquakes back in 1991, and she usually has a full band with her. This time it was a one woman show, which proves one thing; when an artist is truly an artist, they never cease to amaze and surprise their audience.
Rachael sat on my lap swaying back and forth to the music, clapping her hands, then getting up and dancing. Since Jeff was only at the show to be with me, I was able to put him in charge of watching Rachael. He gladly accepted the duty and actually didn’t mind being at the show, only bitching mildly about the fact that the food was very overpriced.
The evening had been going as anticipated until about an hour into the show, when we thought Rachael would be winding down. The little hamster on crack went into turbo drive taking off and running away every time she had the opportunity. She spun in circles around our blanket like a monkey who just ingested a hit of acid and a double-shot latte. I leaned over to Jeff and made the prediction that our jittery kid would end up conking out five minutes before the show ended, and once again, Mom was right.
Near the end of Tori’s set, Rachael threw herself down, covered herself up with her Cat in the Hat blanket, and went fast to sleep. The show ended right after that song. We waited a few minutes and heard half of the first encore when I told Jeff we should head for the shuttle line. For the second encore Tori launched into “Pretty Good Year” and with my baby passed out cold in my arms, I stood there and enjoyed one last song.
I’m under no illusions that Rachael will remember this show, she’s too young. All I can hope is that by attending this concert and the other musical events I will take her to during these formative years, it will help build her into a young woman with a strong sense of individuality. Instead of listening to the endless string of vacuous, untalented, teenage divas during her ‘tween years, maybe Rachael will opt for a better standard. Perhaps by showing her an example of the true artistry and creativity that Tori Amos represents, Rachael will look at popular culture with the same cynicism and suspicion that I do. Hopefully, this will give her the strength of character she needs to look at pictures of models and airbrushed perfection and laugh it off as ridiculous instead of developing the illusion in her head that she needs to follow suit.
I don’t know if that will happen or if any of these hopes will come true, but I can tell you that one thing is guaranteed: this might have been Rachael’s first Tori Amos concert, but as I live and breathe, it sure as hell won’t be her last.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Good Riddance
Chief Justice William Rehnquist died the other day, and now the news, particularly that joke station Fox News is making it out like another Pope kicked the bucket. All I can say about his passing is good fucking riddance.
Where do I begin with this dead asshole; let’s start with the way I became aware of who he was and what he was all about. In my senior year of high school, sitting in one of those portable classrooms with little heat, and not too much interest, our History teacher talked about the Supreme Court, then gave all of us the assignment of profiling one case heard by the high court. As a young woman who was in the throws of watching at least a half dozen of her friends deal with pregnancy, I chose (what a shock) Roe v. Wade. For those of you who aren’t up on your Roe, get with the fucking program already! Rehnquist was one of the two justices who wrote dissenting opinions.
Before you get all accusatory on me like I some kind of flaming libby, let me say, that I find it comforting when someone on the Supreme Court writes a dissenting opinion on every case, because that means that they are truly representing the opinions of all people of this country, even the misguided, wrong people. My problem was not with Rehnquist’s writing of a dissent, it was the fact that he said a woman’s right to choose was unconstitutional. Wasn’t the constitution written to give people of this land the freedom to choose?
Rehnquist also happens to have a sticky history of views that are inherently racist, anti-Semitic, and there have been many instances where he was all too willing to loosen his lip against the rights of blacks and Mexicans to vote. He also enjoyed making Jew jokes, which is not a problem if you’re Jewish, but when you are at an Ivy League school in the 1940s taunting your Jewish classmates who are being treated like second class citizens, then it’s a problem.
Despite all of this, the mainstream media is content with calling him a great man. What did he do to earn this? He kissed corporate ass like crazy, and always managed to rule in favor of the money rather than the people he was appointed to interpret the constitution for. He was nothing more than an upper class, good ol’ boy that benefited from a system designed to keep the white, rich, male establishment on top while the rest of us attempt to eek out an honest living and keep our family afloat.
At the end of filing this report for History class, I had a far different perspective of the “great” Chief Justice than my Republican parents. Rehnquist was so willing to shut down a woman’s right to choose, yet I wondered if he had ever really spent time with a young woman who was desperately struggling with her options. At the time I was writing my paper, five of my friends from the Podunk, farm town I grew up in, were pregnant. All of them struggled desperately through sleepless nights and river of tears with possible solutions to their pregnancy issue. For the record, because I know neo-cons believe that women are basically whores who have the same cavalier attitude about getting rid of a pregnancy as they do about having casual sex, only one of my friends had an abortion. Two of my friends kept their babies, and were relegated to living in poverty for the next five to seven years, and the other two gave their children up for adoption. Adoption may be championed by the Right Wing, but it leaves an uneasy feeling with the mother who gave her child up. For the rest of her life anytime she comes across a child with the same hair and eye color that is about the age of the child she gave up, she will get a nagging feeling in her gut. I wonder if Rehnquist was aware of this, or if he even cared.
He’s dead now, which leaves a vacancy for the worst president in American history to fill. I believe that prior to the enormous fuck up the administration committed in responding to Hurricane Katrina, Bush would have been gung ho to nominate a neo-Rehnquist, now that he’s been taken down a notch, Dubya is trying to push is nominee John Roberts as a centurist. FYI to my readers: he’s not. When you dig deep, he’s a neo-con with the same tight-assed haircut. His wife, Jane, is a Nazi when it comes to a woman’s right to choose, and doesn’t believe in abortion in any case, whether a mother’s life is in danger, rape, incest…nothing. I bet she has never sat next to a scared, teenage girl who was trying to figure out how to support a child on a Wendy’s income, while wondering if her parents were going to kill her.
I know it will never be possible to get a Supreme Court nominee who is void of a left or right affiliation, but this country deserves a justice that is willing and has a reputation of side-stepping their own beliefs to make the most honest ruling based solely on the constitution. Had Rehnquist done this, he would have deserved all of the Fox News praise, and would have been excluded from my “Good Riddance Asshole” list.
Where do I begin with this dead asshole; let’s start with the way I became aware of who he was and what he was all about. In my senior year of high school, sitting in one of those portable classrooms with little heat, and not too much interest, our History teacher talked about the Supreme Court, then gave all of us the assignment of profiling one case heard by the high court. As a young woman who was in the throws of watching at least a half dozen of her friends deal with pregnancy, I chose (what a shock) Roe v. Wade. For those of you who aren’t up on your Roe, get with the fucking program already! Rehnquist was one of the two justices who wrote dissenting opinions.
Before you get all accusatory on me like I some kind of flaming libby, let me say, that I find it comforting when someone on the Supreme Court writes a dissenting opinion on every case, because that means that they are truly representing the opinions of all people of this country, even the misguided, wrong people. My problem was not with Rehnquist’s writing of a dissent, it was the fact that he said a woman’s right to choose was unconstitutional. Wasn’t the constitution written to give people of this land the freedom to choose?
Rehnquist also happens to have a sticky history of views that are inherently racist, anti-Semitic, and there have been many instances where he was all too willing to loosen his lip against the rights of blacks and Mexicans to vote. He also enjoyed making Jew jokes, which is not a problem if you’re Jewish, but when you are at an Ivy League school in the 1940s taunting your Jewish classmates who are being treated like second class citizens, then it’s a problem.
Despite all of this, the mainstream media is content with calling him a great man. What did he do to earn this? He kissed corporate ass like crazy, and always managed to rule in favor of the money rather than the people he was appointed to interpret the constitution for. He was nothing more than an upper class, good ol’ boy that benefited from a system designed to keep the white, rich, male establishment on top while the rest of us attempt to eek out an honest living and keep our family afloat.
At the end of filing this report for History class, I had a far different perspective of the “great” Chief Justice than my Republican parents. Rehnquist was so willing to shut down a woman’s right to choose, yet I wondered if he had ever really spent time with a young woman who was desperately struggling with her options. At the time I was writing my paper, five of my friends from the Podunk, farm town I grew up in, were pregnant. All of them struggled desperately through sleepless nights and river of tears with possible solutions to their pregnancy issue. For the record, because I know neo-cons believe that women are basically whores who have the same cavalier attitude about getting rid of a pregnancy as they do about having casual sex, only one of my friends had an abortion. Two of my friends kept their babies, and were relegated to living in poverty for the next five to seven years, and the other two gave their children up for adoption. Adoption may be championed by the Right Wing, but it leaves an uneasy feeling with the mother who gave her child up. For the rest of her life anytime she comes across a child with the same hair and eye color that is about the age of the child she gave up, she will get a nagging feeling in her gut. I wonder if Rehnquist was aware of this, or if he even cared.
He’s dead now, which leaves a vacancy for the worst president in American history to fill. I believe that prior to the enormous fuck up the administration committed in responding to Hurricane Katrina, Bush would have been gung ho to nominate a neo-Rehnquist, now that he’s been taken down a notch, Dubya is trying to push is nominee John Roberts as a centurist. FYI to my readers: he’s not. When you dig deep, he’s a neo-con with the same tight-assed haircut. His wife, Jane, is a Nazi when it comes to a woman’s right to choose, and doesn’t believe in abortion in any case, whether a mother’s life is in danger, rape, incest…nothing. I bet she has never sat next to a scared, teenage girl who was trying to figure out how to support a child on a Wendy’s income, while wondering if her parents were going to kill her.
I know it will never be possible to get a Supreme Court nominee who is void of a left or right affiliation, but this country deserves a justice that is willing and has a reputation of side-stepping their own beliefs to make the most honest ruling based solely on the constitution. Had Rehnquist done this, he would have deserved all of the Fox News praise, and would have been excluded from my “Good Riddance Asshole” list.
Monday, September 12, 2005
Hide 'n' Seek
I found myself on my knees again, and not in the fun way. My hair was gelled and still dripping wet, I was half-dressed tearing through my living room looking under the skirts of my couch and loveseat trying to locate my deodorant. The little thief had struck again playing her amusing game of hide ‘n’ seek, and I was her latest victim.
I knew this petty theft was going to be a problem around the time she turned a year old. While cleaning her toy room I found two pairs of Jeff’s socks, one of Fozzy’s bandanas, and a package of my maxipads. Rachael regularly rifles through the middle drawer in my bathroom, as I’m trying to get ready, and pulls everything out. She will then line all of the items up on the tile ledge of the tub. I have to hand it to her; it’s quite a cool display of perfume bottles, hand cream, eye drops for the dog, and whatever else she can find. The only conflict comes when she decides to hide things, and of course, it’s never Fozzy’s eye drops.
I once heard Jerry Seinfeld on a talk show referring to his two kids as “evil, little leprechauns” after they tried flushing his car keys down the toilet. At the time I was childfree and thought that statement was terrible, now I want to correct you Mr. Seinfeld; children are not evil, little leprechauns, they are scheming, mischievous, evil, little leprechauns! I am convinced that the only reason children get a chance to live past age two is because they are very cute. Even when Rachael is at her worst I find it hard to keep the smile off my face.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not the lining up of the toiletries that gets to me and earns Rachael the “evil leprechaun” status, it’s the hiding things, particularly things I need that I happen to find missing when I need them. After several minutes of endless searching, I had to resort to the rather unpleasant task of looking for a new deodorant in the odorous Rubbermaid tub at the bottom of the hall closet. When we moved back in January, we took all of the toiletries that we didn’t use along with the extra stuff we got on sale at Costco and threw it in a Rubbermaid tub. To top it off we threw half-used shampoo bottles, decorative soaps, and a shit load of the tiny bottles you find in hotel bathrooms (because my husband can’t leave someplace without a million of those) in the mix. Now the tub of extra toiletries has a weird squeaky clean, stinky smell to it, which is probably why it hasn’t been unpacked yet. The tub kind of reeks of that junior high kid who just got their first bottle of cologne or perfume and decided to wear half the damn bottle to school on a muggy, Spring day.
After digging through the putrid smelling tub, I was able to find a spare deodorant and a new tube of toothpaste. Unfortunately, the deodorant was broken, so within minutes, I was back on my knees, again, not in the fun way, on a seek and destroy mission for the magical formula that would keep me smelling powder fresh all day. I finally found it in the formal living, or as I refer to it – the enormous waste of space – underneath the chair. Sitting next to my dispenser of Secret was one of Rachael’s binkies that we haven’t seen in months.
I had a suspicion that she was stashing those fucking things everywhere, that way when I finally work towards breaking her away from them, she can go to one of the many household hiding places, pull one out and waggle it in front of me with victory. During my search I found two more binkies, which now greatly advances my conspiracy theory.
I’m told by other mommies with older children that this hide ‘n’ seek phase subsides around the middle to third quarter of the second year, but I’m not taking any chances. From now on, along with all things toxic and non-digestible, I’m putting essential things away where Rachael cannot reach them. The only drawback to this plan is that my daughter, who honest to goodness only had a one in four chance of being tall hit the genetic lotto, and grows two inches at a time. She is already opening the top drawers in my bathroom and can reach the items on the edges. The other day she spilled half of my pricey, Clinique daily facial cream on the floor and took off running, because she knew I was right behind her ready to slam dunk her into the timeout room. Yes, I’m one of those freaky timeout moms, but I have a good reason for using this method. My daughter responds to spankings two ways: she either continues to cry louder, which I don’t want to hear or she will reach back, laugh, and slap me on the hand. She hates timeout the most, so that’s what I do, until the day I can ground her.
I don’t plan to participate in hide ‘n’ seek tomorrow, and took the necessary precautions by moving my deodorant to the back of the top drawer in my bathroom. I’m under no illusions that my evil leprechaun has abandoned her scheming ways, so for now I’m being cautious, keeping my bedroom door closed and praying like hell that she never decides to venture into the top drawer of my bedside nightstand.
I knew this petty theft was going to be a problem around the time she turned a year old. While cleaning her toy room I found two pairs of Jeff’s socks, one of Fozzy’s bandanas, and a package of my maxipads. Rachael regularly rifles through the middle drawer in my bathroom, as I’m trying to get ready, and pulls everything out. She will then line all of the items up on the tile ledge of the tub. I have to hand it to her; it’s quite a cool display of perfume bottles, hand cream, eye drops for the dog, and whatever else she can find. The only conflict comes when she decides to hide things, and of course, it’s never Fozzy’s eye drops.
I once heard Jerry Seinfeld on a talk show referring to his two kids as “evil, little leprechauns” after they tried flushing his car keys down the toilet. At the time I was childfree and thought that statement was terrible, now I want to correct you Mr. Seinfeld; children are not evil, little leprechauns, they are scheming, mischievous, evil, little leprechauns! I am convinced that the only reason children get a chance to live past age two is because they are very cute. Even when Rachael is at her worst I find it hard to keep the smile off my face.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not the lining up of the toiletries that gets to me and earns Rachael the “evil leprechaun” status, it’s the hiding things, particularly things I need that I happen to find missing when I need them. After several minutes of endless searching, I had to resort to the rather unpleasant task of looking for a new deodorant in the odorous Rubbermaid tub at the bottom of the hall closet. When we moved back in January, we took all of the toiletries that we didn’t use along with the extra stuff we got on sale at Costco and threw it in a Rubbermaid tub. To top it off we threw half-used shampoo bottles, decorative soaps, and a shit load of the tiny bottles you find in hotel bathrooms (because my husband can’t leave someplace without a million of those) in the mix. Now the tub of extra toiletries has a weird squeaky clean, stinky smell to it, which is probably why it hasn’t been unpacked yet. The tub kind of reeks of that junior high kid who just got their first bottle of cologne or perfume and decided to wear half the damn bottle to school on a muggy, Spring day.
After digging through the putrid smelling tub, I was able to find a spare deodorant and a new tube of toothpaste. Unfortunately, the deodorant was broken, so within minutes, I was back on my knees, again, not in the fun way, on a seek and destroy mission for the magical formula that would keep me smelling powder fresh all day. I finally found it in the formal living, or as I refer to it – the enormous waste of space – underneath the chair. Sitting next to my dispenser of Secret was one of Rachael’s binkies that we haven’t seen in months.
I had a suspicion that she was stashing those fucking things everywhere, that way when I finally work towards breaking her away from them, she can go to one of the many household hiding places, pull one out and waggle it in front of me with victory. During my search I found two more binkies, which now greatly advances my conspiracy theory.
I’m told by other mommies with older children that this hide ‘n’ seek phase subsides around the middle to third quarter of the second year, but I’m not taking any chances. From now on, along with all things toxic and non-digestible, I’m putting essential things away where Rachael cannot reach them. The only drawback to this plan is that my daughter, who honest to goodness only had a one in four chance of being tall hit the genetic lotto, and grows two inches at a time. She is already opening the top drawers in my bathroom and can reach the items on the edges. The other day she spilled half of my pricey, Clinique daily facial cream on the floor and took off running, because she knew I was right behind her ready to slam dunk her into the timeout room. Yes, I’m one of those freaky timeout moms, but I have a good reason for using this method. My daughter responds to spankings two ways: she either continues to cry louder, which I don’t want to hear or she will reach back, laugh, and slap me on the hand. She hates timeout the most, so that’s what I do, until the day I can ground her.
I don’t plan to participate in hide ‘n’ seek tomorrow, and took the necessary precautions by moving my deodorant to the back of the top drawer in my bathroom. I’m under no illusions that my evil leprechaun has abandoned her scheming ways, so for now I’m being cautious, keeping my bedroom door closed and praying like hell that she never decides to venture into the top drawer of my bedside nightstand.
Friday, September 09, 2005
Snubbed at the Neighborhood BBQ
The endless and strange social codes that make up life in Suburbia never cease to amaze me. While catching up with three other couples, and their kids, at our Labor Day gathering in Sammamish, we compared notes about the goings on in our neighborhoods.
There were four couples. All of us live in very Suburbia neighborhoods; three out of the four live in Suburbia, because we have kids while the other, childfree couple happened to fall desperately in love with a house, and desired a location of minimal population. My childfree friend, Monica, was late to the gathering, because her driveway was blocked by a party happening in their cul-de-sac. The main problem was she and her husband weren’t invited. Clearly irked by the snubbing, Monica humorously and verbally began dissecting the reasons why the invitation didn’t come. Her husband, Adam, finally chimed in and stated the obvious: none of these people were really their friends, they don’t spend any time with these neighbors, and in the end, neither Adam nor Monica, really cared about being invited in the first place.
Stacy, my friend who gave birth to twins three weeks ago, said she had the same problem in her neighborhood. One night, while she was loading her twins and their toddler age brother into the car when she happened to run into a neighbor that told her about a neighborhood playgroup that had been meeting nightly all summer at 7:00 p.m. Stacy attended that night, but was also a bit miffed at the lack of neighborhood outreach. She figured that the main reason she and her family were finally invited to the playgroup was due solely due to her parent’s dog. Her parents have a little wiener dog named Sam, who was born with bladder issues. Sam has to wear diapers, and in order to keep the diaper on also wears an infant sized bathing suit. Stacy’s dog Milo escaped one day with Sam in toe, and the neighbors became curious about the little dog in the costume.
Our gathering host, Rachel, said she barely knows her neighbors, and, like Jeff and I, really doesn’t care about participating in playgroups. I begin to wonder why, then, did I move to Suburbia if it was all just one big, preppy, high school-style clique. Sure, I have a kid who will benefit from a safe, clean neighborhood, but I wonder how much social interaction she will have with other neighborhood children if I’m not more of an involved mom. Could my cynicism towards establishments and ridiculous social codes be negatively affecting her already? After all, I thought I had at least another five years before that happened.
I could make more of an effort to bring Rachael to the playground around 5:00 p.m., which is the high traffic time. Maybe I should be more outgoing and smiley when I meet my neighbors at the mailbox, but it all feels so damn phony to me. Besides, why should I have to do all the work! Monica is on the Welcoming Committee in her neighborhood and says she is always friendly to her neighbors, yet she was snubbed at the neighborhood barbecue. Why wouldn’t my neighbors want to invite my family to a gathering, after all, it’s not like we are a bunch of strange-looking freaks, and even if we were, that’s all the more reason to invite us over. I would invite freaks to my house, because I guarantee they would be a hell of a lot more interesting than the other tight-asses in this neighborhood.
As we ate burgers and passed the tiny twins around, we all brushed off our respective neighborhood snubbings as the problem of the snubbers themselves. We had all gone out of our way to say “hello” and wave at our neighbors, but concluded that they, not us, had dropped the ball. Stacy, who is amazingly outgoing and fun, says she’s making cookies today to take to a new family that just moved into her tract. I figured that anymore, you just have to be very guerilla about meeting new people. I think her cookie idea is a good one, and I will do the same as soon as the house on the end of the street is put up for sale, and purchased by new owners, which I know will happen soon given that recently, the wife threw a knife at her husband leaving him with minor stitches. She has already taken the kids and moved out, so I expect to see the “For Sale” sign any day now, because once you stab your spouse whether fatally or not, it’s only a matter of time before someone’s getting a lawyer.
In the meantime, I’ll put the cookie dough in the freezer and keep the baking sheet handy. Hopefully, the newest residents to my end of Suburbia are interesting. Maybe I’ll luck out and the mom will be a former riotgrrl and the dad will have a full-sleeve tattoo, and they will have a cynicism of living in Suburbia, but are resigned to residing here because of their kids. In a perfect world, my newest neighbors would be cool. Most likely, they will be the same tight-asses who already live here, but this time I will make the first move, get guerilla, and bring them cookies.
There were four couples. All of us live in very Suburbia neighborhoods; three out of the four live in Suburbia, because we have kids while the other, childfree couple happened to fall desperately in love with a house, and desired a location of minimal population. My childfree friend, Monica, was late to the gathering, because her driveway was blocked by a party happening in their cul-de-sac. The main problem was she and her husband weren’t invited. Clearly irked by the snubbing, Monica humorously and verbally began dissecting the reasons why the invitation didn’t come. Her husband, Adam, finally chimed in and stated the obvious: none of these people were really their friends, they don’t spend any time with these neighbors, and in the end, neither Adam nor Monica, really cared about being invited in the first place.
Stacy, my friend who gave birth to twins three weeks ago, said she had the same problem in her neighborhood. One night, while she was loading her twins and their toddler age brother into the car when she happened to run into a neighbor that told her about a neighborhood playgroup that had been meeting nightly all summer at 7:00 p.m. Stacy attended that night, but was also a bit miffed at the lack of neighborhood outreach. She figured that the main reason she and her family were finally invited to the playgroup was due solely due to her parent’s dog. Her parents have a little wiener dog named Sam, who was born with bladder issues. Sam has to wear diapers, and in order to keep the diaper on also wears an infant sized bathing suit. Stacy’s dog Milo escaped one day with Sam in toe, and the neighbors became curious about the little dog in the costume.
Our gathering host, Rachel, said she barely knows her neighbors, and, like Jeff and I, really doesn’t care about participating in playgroups. I begin to wonder why, then, did I move to Suburbia if it was all just one big, preppy, high school-style clique. Sure, I have a kid who will benefit from a safe, clean neighborhood, but I wonder how much social interaction she will have with other neighborhood children if I’m not more of an involved mom. Could my cynicism towards establishments and ridiculous social codes be negatively affecting her already? After all, I thought I had at least another five years before that happened.
I could make more of an effort to bring Rachael to the playground around 5:00 p.m., which is the high traffic time. Maybe I should be more outgoing and smiley when I meet my neighbors at the mailbox, but it all feels so damn phony to me. Besides, why should I have to do all the work! Monica is on the Welcoming Committee in her neighborhood and says she is always friendly to her neighbors, yet she was snubbed at the neighborhood barbecue. Why wouldn’t my neighbors want to invite my family to a gathering, after all, it’s not like we are a bunch of strange-looking freaks, and even if we were, that’s all the more reason to invite us over. I would invite freaks to my house, because I guarantee they would be a hell of a lot more interesting than the other tight-asses in this neighborhood.
As we ate burgers and passed the tiny twins around, we all brushed off our respective neighborhood snubbings as the problem of the snubbers themselves. We had all gone out of our way to say “hello” and wave at our neighbors, but concluded that they, not us, had dropped the ball. Stacy, who is amazingly outgoing and fun, says she’s making cookies today to take to a new family that just moved into her tract. I figured that anymore, you just have to be very guerilla about meeting new people. I think her cookie idea is a good one, and I will do the same as soon as the house on the end of the street is put up for sale, and purchased by new owners, which I know will happen soon given that recently, the wife threw a knife at her husband leaving him with minor stitches. She has already taken the kids and moved out, so I expect to see the “For Sale” sign any day now, because once you stab your spouse whether fatally or not, it’s only a matter of time before someone’s getting a lawyer.
In the meantime, I’ll put the cookie dough in the freezer and keep the baking sheet handy. Hopefully, the newest residents to my end of Suburbia are interesting. Maybe I’ll luck out and the mom will be a former riotgrrl and the dad will have a full-sleeve tattoo, and they will have a cynicism of living in Suburbia, but are resigned to residing here because of their kids. In a perfect world, my newest neighbors would be cool. Most likely, they will be the same tight-asses who already live here, but this time I will make the first move, get guerilla, and bring them cookies.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Campaign Signs
It’s that magical time of year, when Suburbanites decide to express their views by planting wooden stakes decorated with the name of the candidate of choice into their pristinely manicured lawns. For the neighborhood dweller, this is a great opportunity to show the world (i.e. all of their neighbors) where they stand when it comes to Election Day. I find this act of staking a lawn sign for political purposes completely pointless.
With only two political parties in a country of over 250 million, it’s a good bet that when you plant the lawn sign, a minimum of 30% of your fellow suburb dwellers will consider you an asshole. Not that I would care about that, because I think the title of “Neighborhood Asshole” is quite a coveted position. If you’re the “Neighborhood Asshole,” no one steps on your lawn or tries to engage you in boring small talk about the weather or the always-pregnant woman down the street’s latest kid. Someday I aspire to be the know-it-all old lady or the “Neighborhood Asshole,” which ever one comes first.
Our neighborhood avoids the campaign sign issue completely by imposing a War and Peace sized book of Covenants, Codes and Restrictions for our little tract. I understand the reasoning behind the ban on the signs, but I don’t agree with it. If you want to put some politician’s name on your lawn, you should be able to as long as you haven’t fooled yourself into believing that that particular politician is working for the betterment of your life. I assume the reason why the lawn signs were banned stemmed from those freaky Ten Commandments people. You know, the ones that put the yellow, Ten Commandments sign up when that crazy Southern judge refused to move the religious statue out of a federal building. I’m sure those residing next to the freaky Ten Commandments people thought the yellow signs would disappear once the schmuck was thrown off the bench, brought up on charges, and the statue was removed anyway, but lo and behold, the yellow signs stayed. I wonder if they consider that guy an activist judge.
Perhaps the restrictions against the lawn signs are an attempt by our very vanilla Homeowner’s Association to keep peace and harmony throughout the neighborhood. This is a noble idea, but frankly, if I’m going to go off on what an incompetent, corrupt fuck I think our president is, I would like to know if my neighbor is a neo-con, so I can anticipate a belligerent reaction and really focus on enjoying the dismay that will ensue. I don’t really care which side of the fence you fall, because both of the aforementioned parties are full of self-serving bastards that don’t speak for average working people like you and me.
If allowed, my lawn sign display would be quite different. I would put a stake in my lawn about every square foot with quotes from George Orwell, lyrics from Rage Against the Machine, and website addresses for media literacy campaigns, Fairness and Accuracy in Reporting, and revolutionary groups. I would hang an effigy of Bush and Cheney from the porch, and place a large banner on the garage door telling my neighbors to wake up, because they are losing their freedom. All of this action would inevitably earn me the title of “Neighborhood Nutcase,” which might be fun for a little while, but I would much rather be the nosey, pain in the ass or “Neighborhood Asshole.” No body takes the nutcase seriously, but when the asshole shows up, everyone listens.
Since no campaign sign is allowed within the neighborhood, I am greeted by a line of them as I approach the entrance of my tract. I’m not sure why politicians choose to utilize this form of campaigning, because a name on a sign isn’t going to get me to vote for them. If anything, the only way they are going to hear from me is if that fucking sign littering my visual landscape isn’t gone the day after they lose the election. I have no problem with picking up the phone to file a complaint!
Yesterday, I received my voter’s guide, so I’ll rely on that as a resource, as well as The Seattle Weekly’s rundown of the candidates up for office. They may be a libby magazine, but they are willing to criticize their own, unlike some of the more conservative publications that stick to the taking points as if they were not humans, but simple-minded droids void of the ability to think for themselves. Actually, come to think of it, that is a pretty damn good description.
Despite believing that the only effective change that will come about in this country will be from a violent citizen revolution, I will go do the duty that many brave men fought for and cast my vote on Election Day. After all, if you don’t vote, you can’t bitch, and if you can’t bitch, then move to my neighborhood, because you can’t stake a campaign sign either.
With only two political parties in a country of over 250 million, it’s a good bet that when you plant the lawn sign, a minimum of 30% of your fellow suburb dwellers will consider you an asshole. Not that I would care about that, because I think the title of “Neighborhood Asshole” is quite a coveted position. If you’re the “Neighborhood Asshole,” no one steps on your lawn or tries to engage you in boring small talk about the weather or the always-pregnant woman down the street’s latest kid. Someday I aspire to be the know-it-all old lady or the “Neighborhood Asshole,” which ever one comes first.
Our neighborhood avoids the campaign sign issue completely by imposing a War and Peace sized book of Covenants, Codes and Restrictions for our little tract. I understand the reasoning behind the ban on the signs, but I don’t agree with it. If you want to put some politician’s name on your lawn, you should be able to as long as you haven’t fooled yourself into believing that that particular politician is working for the betterment of your life. I assume the reason why the lawn signs were banned stemmed from those freaky Ten Commandments people. You know, the ones that put the yellow, Ten Commandments sign up when that crazy Southern judge refused to move the religious statue out of a federal building. I’m sure those residing next to the freaky Ten Commandments people thought the yellow signs would disappear once the schmuck was thrown off the bench, brought up on charges, and the statue was removed anyway, but lo and behold, the yellow signs stayed. I wonder if they consider that guy an activist judge.
Perhaps the restrictions against the lawn signs are an attempt by our very vanilla Homeowner’s Association to keep peace and harmony throughout the neighborhood. This is a noble idea, but frankly, if I’m going to go off on what an incompetent, corrupt fuck I think our president is, I would like to know if my neighbor is a neo-con, so I can anticipate a belligerent reaction and really focus on enjoying the dismay that will ensue. I don’t really care which side of the fence you fall, because both of the aforementioned parties are full of self-serving bastards that don’t speak for average working people like you and me.
If allowed, my lawn sign display would be quite different. I would put a stake in my lawn about every square foot with quotes from George Orwell, lyrics from Rage Against the Machine, and website addresses for media literacy campaigns, Fairness and Accuracy in Reporting, and revolutionary groups. I would hang an effigy of Bush and Cheney from the porch, and place a large banner on the garage door telling my neighbors to wake up, because they are losing their freedom. All of this action would inevitably earn me the title of “Neighborhood Nutcase,” which might be fun for a little while, but I would much rather be the nosey, pain in the ass or “Neighborhood Asshole.” No body takes the nutcase seriously, but when the asshole shows up, everyone listens.
Since no campaign sign is allowed within the neighborhood, I am greeted by a line of them as I approach the entrance of my tract. I’m not sure why politicians choose to utilize this form of campaigning, because a name on a sign isn’t going to get me to vote for them. If anything, the only way they are going to hear from me is if that fucking sign littering my visual landscape isn’t gone the day after they lose the election. I have no problem with picking up the phone to file a complaint!
Yesterday, I received my voter’s guide, so I’ll rely on that as a resource, as well as The Seattle Weekly’s rundown of the candidates up for office. They may be a libby magazine, but they are willing to criticize their own, unlike some of the more conservative publications that stick to the taking points as if they were not humans, but simple-minded droids void of the ability to think for themselves. Actually, come to think of it, that is a pretty damn good description.
Despite believing that the only effective change that will come about in this country will be from a violent citizen revolution, I will go do the duty that many brave men fought for and cast my vote on Election Day. After all, if you don’t vote, you can’t bitch, and if you can’t bitch, then move to my neighborhood, because you can’t stake a campaign sign either.
Monday, September 05, 2005
My Sanctuary
On those special nights, when I feel like killing every living thing at my house, I steal away to my sanctuary, the bookstore. My husband usually lets me go without a fuss, because he knows when I get that bloodlust look in my eye, it’s better to be away from me than near me.
The bookstore I run to isn’t one of those unique, quirky, indie book places; it’s just a Borders Books and Music near the mall. All of those cool, aforementioned stores are in the city, and tend to close around 8:00 p.m. During my usual bookstore outing, I begin by checking out the clearance titles on the portable bins in front of the store, because you just never know what you’ll find. Tonight, Kurt Cobain’s private journals are marked down to $5.99. What a shame. Such a brilliant, talented mind, exploited in death by his greedy widow, who was just busted for drugs, again, which doesn’t surprise me given the fact that the bitch probably hasn’t been sober since 1988. Note to my husband: If you ever publish my private journals, I’ll come back from the grave and make your life more of a chaotic hell than I do now!
I proceed inside and go right to the barista to place my coffee order. This may be a corporate bookstore void of a soul or knowledgeable employees, but it does have the wonderful advantage of a full coffee bar. While the little guy is whipping up my usual (medium, skinny, vanilla latte), I grab the Seattle indie zines: The Seattle Weekly and The Stranger. I love both of these publications. The Weekly is slightly more mainstream than The Stranger, but both are hell raisin,’ ass kickin,’ ultra-libby zines that give a quality alternative to the sanitized news on the broadcast channels. Back in the ‘90s there was another zine called The Rocket, which I desperately miss. I think about The Rocket as I grab my drink and begin perusing the pages of my zines. My favorite section of both of the magazines are the personal ads, especially the ones where people with odd fetishes look for others with the same bizarre tastes. I really never knew there were that many people in the world who wanted to be walked around on a leash like a dog.
After indulging my own local indie zine fetish, I cruise past the racks of magazines, and realize that all of the glossy publications I would choose to read, I already subscribe to. I press on to the main displays featuring the best seller titles. There are millions of new books available, but fortunately Borders and the corporate powers that be have conveniently waded through all things non-catagorizable to bring you titles that you wouldn’t likely spend two seconds looking at. Senator Rick Santorum, you know the conservative, straight guy who thinks about homosexual men non-stop, has written a book on restoring family values. I grab this one and flip through a few pages, most likely for the same reason I read Mein Kampf, it’s good to have a full grasp of absurd ideas that mindless people follow that way you can know how to strike back. I don’t buy the Senator’s book, because I don’t want to give him a dime of my money, plus I figure that within a month or two, it will be right next to Kurt Cobain’s journals on the rack outside the store.
I make my way through the music section hoping to find some of the older albums by The Soviettes forgetting for a moment that I’m in a corporate bookstore. This fact hits me in the face with a punch as I’m inundated rows of Jessica Simpson CDs. First of all, I can’t believe people pay attention to Jessica Simpson, let alone actually want to hear her sing, but to each their own. I make a stop upstairs in the Judaism section, located right next to the Islam books, because Middle America tends to lump the two together anyways, and finally return to the coffee stand/reading area with a glossy music magazine.
While finishing the last few sips of my latte, I look around and notice that most of the other people in there are about my age. I wonder if they are Suburbia refugees, as well. Maybe if we all got together, we could form some sort of a club and force this Borders location to operate more like the cooler bookstores in the city. We could hold nightly support groups to deal with the nagging feeling of having to break away and reclaim some semblance of the independence we once knew before we said “I do” and agreed to go by the name “Mommy” or “Daddy”. Maybe if we all gathered together, we could figure out a way to make Suburbia a great, interesting place thriving with ideas and artistic inspiration.
Then I realize the one glaring reason why we are all here at Borders in the first place: we just want to be left alone to think an uninterrupted thought for five seconds without a nagging spouse or demanding child. We want to look through books, music, and magazines that are interesting to us and only us, and we want to have our coffee drink while gawking with amusement at the personal ad for the guy who wants to be treated like a baby and gets off wearing diapers.
The bookstore I run to isn’t one of those unique, quirky, indie book places; it’s just a Borders Books and Music near the mall. All of those cool, aforementioned stores are in the city, and tend to close around 8:00 p.m. During my usual bookstore outing, I begin by checking out the clearance titles on the portable bins in front of the store, because you just never know what you’ll find. Tonight, Kurt Cobain’s private journals are marked down to $5.99. What a shame. Such a brilliant, talented mind, exploited in death by his greedy widow, who was just busted for drugs, again, which doesn’t surprise me given the fact that the bitch probably hasn’t been sober since 1988. Note to my husband: If you ever publish my private journals, I’ll come back from the grave and make your life more of a chaotic hell than I do now!
I proceed inside and go right to the barista to place my coffee order. This may be a corporate bookstore void of a soul or knowledgeable employees, but it does have the wonderful advantage of a full coffee bar. While the little guy is whipping up my usual (medium, skinny, vanilla latte), I grab the Seattle indie zines: The Seattle Weekly and The Stranger. I love both of these publications. The Weekly is slightly more mainstream than The Stranger, but both are hell raisin,’ ass kickin,’ ultra-libby zines that give a quality alternative to the sanitized news on the broadcast channels. Back in the ‘90s there was another zine called The Rocket, which I desperately miss. I think about The Rocket as I grab my drink and begin perusing the pages of my zines. My favorite section of both of the magazines are the personal ads, especially the ones where people with odd fetishes look for others with the same bizarre tastes. I really never knew there were that many people in the world who wanted to be walked around on a leash like a dog.
After indulging my own local indie zine fetish, I cruise past the racks of magazines, and realize that all of the glossy publications I would choose to read, I already subscribe to. I press on to the main displays featuring the best seller titles. There are millions of new books available, but fortunately Borders and the corporate powers that be have conveniently waded through all things non-catagorizable to bring you titles that you wouldn’t likely spend two seconds looking at. Senator Rick Santorum, you know the conservative, straight guy who thinks about homosexual men non-stop, has written a book on restoring family values. I grab this one and flip through a few pages, most likely for the same reason I read Mein Kampf, it’s good to have a full grasp of absurd ideas that mindless people follow that way you can know how to strike back. I don’t buy the Senator’s book, because I don’t want to give him a dime of my money, plus I figure that within a month or two, it will be right next to Kurt Cobain’s journals on the rack outside the store.
I make my way through the music section hoping to find some of the older albums by The Soviettes forgetting for a moment that I’m in a corporate bookstore. This fact hits me in the face with a punch as I’m inundated rows of Jessica Simpson CDs. First of all, I can’t believe people pay attention to Jessica Simpson, let alone actually want to hear her sing, but to each their own. I make a stop upstairs in the Judaism section, located right next to the Islam books, because Middle America tends to lump the two together anyways, and finally return to the coffee stand/reading area with a glossy music magazine.
While finishing the last few sips of my latte, I look around and notice that most of the other people in there are about my age. I wonder if they are Suburbia refugees, as well. Maybe if we all got together, we could form some sort of a club and force this Borders location to operate more like the cooler bookstores in the city. We could hold nightly support groups to deal with the nagging feeling of having to break away and reclaim some semblance of the independence we once knew before we said “I do” and agreed to go by the name “Mommy” or “Daddy”. Maybe if we all gathered together, we could figure out a way to make Suburbia a great, interesting place thriving with ideas and artistic inspiration.
Then I realize the one glaring reason why we are all here at Borders in the first place: we just want to be left alone to think an uninterrupted thought for five seconds without a nagging spouse or demanding child. We want to look through books, music, and magazines that are interesting to us and only us, and we want to have our coffee drink while gawking with amusement at the personal ad for the guy who wants to be treated like a baby and gets off wearing diapers.
Friday, September 02, 2005
Alternative Energy
When gas prices near $3 a gallon, neurotic Jewish guys, like the one I’m married to, begin babbling in strange tongue. Their gibberish is a bizarre mixture of disbelief at the fact that only a mere nine years ago gas was less than $1 a gallon, along with utterances of a master conspiracy by the current administration and the Saudi royal family (which is plausible), and a momentary brainstorm of other likely fuel sources they can begin employing to ease pump abuse.
In an attempt to cut back on our fuel consumption, Jeff has been looking into alternative sources of energy. I’m happy about this, because it is very forward-thinking, and I believe, short of separating the cans and milk cartons from the rest of the trash, is his first real attempt to help the environment. Some of the things he’s come up with, however, leave me both puzzled and amused.
He is open to trading his current Mazda 626 for a high mileage, gas efficient vehicle such as a hybrid or ultra-compact. Unfortunately, this is where the normal, rational thinking ends.
He has entertained the idea of purchasing vehicles that run on everything from electricity to natural gas to, the best one of all, old French fry grease. The natural gas car is only an option, in Jeff’s opinion, if it can be hooked up to the gas line we plumbed at our house to fuel the barbecue. If he actually has to travel any sort of distance to a natural gas filling station, then he says it really wouldn’t be worth it.
The electric car is perfect except for the fact that it will only go 30 miles per hour, which I can’t even reduce my speed to while taking a curve during rush hour, so that idea is pretty much dead.
His thoughts about a vehicle powered by old French fry grease, otherwise known as, bio-diesel are interesting, but he wants to take it to a self-serve level. For Jeff’s bio-diesel plan, he would purchase a converted Volkswagen or Mercedes, and convince fast food places to give him their old French fry grease to use as fuel. Cities such as San Francisco have collectives of people utilizing this alternative fuel source, and as our cousin explained to us this past weekend, it involves a large amount of purification of the fry grease. Jeff is still convinced that this is a viable option and will be test-driving a bio-diesel car later this week.
He told me that the only drawback would be that our car would smell like French fries. Considering that the current smell of burning gasoline is downright putrid, I think French fry scent would be heaven, besides, I like French fries. I think this French fry idea might be the way for our country to go, because it would be a circular thing like Wal-mart and poverty. Wal-mart moves into an area, puts other establishments out of business creating unemployment, then they pay their people crap, so the unemployed and the underpaid have to shop at the cheapest place, which is Wal-mart. The French fry fuel would work similarly, only it would be an entity of pure ambivalence and evil.
People could run their cars on French fry grease causing a wonderful French fry smell to waft through the air. Since everyone would be smelling French fries non-stop, they will want to eat some, which will create more old grease. Then when people end up eating French fries everyday, they will become less mobile, and need their cars more often, thus creating a self-fulfilling need that, unlike oil, will never be diminished. Besides, nearly 50% of the country is obese, so there wouldn’t likely be too many objections over the French fry smell.
Alas, these are mere pipe dreams, and the oil barons both at home and abroad will continue to control our lives until we manage to get off our collective asses and do something about it. In the meantime, the negative consequence falls on me, not in terms of spending the extra money, but having to listen to my husband’s insane ideas about gas efficient vehicles. Short of inquiring into the purchase of a donkey, Jeff has mentioned everything obsessively and repetitively every night since gas hit over $2.35 a gallon.
He will be home in a little while and I expect to hear the same thing at tonight’s dinner. As for the donkey, it’s only a matter of time. I can hear him now, “C’mon Mel, how much could hay really cost,” “You know how much Rachael loves animals, and our yard is big enough,” “I’ll check the internet and see if they make carseat saddles.”
In an attempt to cut back on our fuel consumption, Jeff has been looking into alternative sources of energy. I’m happy about this, because it is very forward-thinking, and I believe, short of separating the cans and milk cartons from the rest of the trash, is his first real attempt to help the environment. Some of the things he’s come up with, however, leave me both puzzled and amused.
He is open to trading his current Mazda 626 for a high mileage, gas efficient vehicle such as a hybrid or ultra-compact. Unfortunately, this is where the normal, rational thinking ends.
He has entertained the idea of purchasing vehicles that run on everything from electricity to natural gas to, the best one of all, old French fry grease. The natural gas car is only an option, in Jeff’s opinion, if it can be hooked up to the gas line we plumbed at our house to fuel the barbecue. If he actually has to travel any sort of distance to a natural gas filling station, then he says it really wouldn’t be worth it.
The electric car is perfect except for the fact that it will only go 30 miles per hour, which I can’t even reduce my speed to while taking a curve during rush hour, so that idea is pretty much dead.
His thoughts about a vehicle powered by old French fry grease, otherwise known as, bio-diesel are interesting, but he wants to take it to a self-serve level. For Jeff’s bio-diesel plan, he would purchase a converted Volkswagen or Mercedes, and convince fast food places to give him their old French fry grease to use as fuel. Cities such as San Francisco have collectives of people utilizing this alternative fuel source, and as our cousin explained to us this past weekend, it involves a large amount of purification of the fry grease. Jeff is still convinced that this is a viable option and will be test-driving a bio-diesel car later this week.
He told me that the only drawback would be that our car would smell like French fries. Considering that the current smell of burning gasoline is downright putrid, I think French fry scent would be heaven, besides, I like French fries. I think this French fry idea might be the way for our country to go, because it would be a circular thing like Wal-mart and poverty. Wal-mart moves into an area, puts other establishments out of business creating unemployment, then they pay their people crap, so the unemployed and the underpaid have to shop at the cheapest place, which is Wal-mart. The French fry fuel would work similarly, only it would be an entity of pure ambivalence and evil.
People could run their cars on French fry grease causing a wonderful French fry smell to waft through the air. Since everyone would be smelling French fries non-stop, they will want to eat some, which will create more old grease. Then when people end up eating French fries everyday, they will become less mobile, and need their cars more often, thus creating a self-fulfilling need that, unlike oil, will never be diminished. Besides, nearly 50% of the country is obese, so there wouldn’t likely be too many objections over the French fry smell.
Alas, these are mere pipe dreams, and the oil barons both at home and abroad will continue to control our lives until we manage to get off our collective asses and do something about it. In the meantime, the negative consequence falls on me, not in terms of spending the extra money, but having to listen to my husband’s insane ideas about gas efficient vehicles. Short of inquiring into the purchase of a donkey, Jeff has mentioned everything obsessively and repetitively every night since gas hit over $2.35 a gallon.
He will be home in a little while and I expect to hear the same thing at tonight’s dinner. As for the donkey, it’s only a matter of time. I can hear him now, “C’mon Mel, how much could hay really cost,” “You know how much Rachael loves animals, and our yard is big enough,” “I’ll check the internet and see if they make carseat saddles.”
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