Losing weight is such a positive thing. For women, fitting into a pair of jeans that happen to be a size smaller than you normally wear is right up there with finding out the guy you were completely mental over is way into you. Watching your body slim down is a plus, as is the fact that sex seems to get better with each fleeing pound, and picking out new clothes is such an esteem booster.
I don’t mind buying new pants; because Old Navy is the perfect destination for those of us in need of a reasonably priced transitional work wardrobe. Shirts are fun and adventurous to shop for, and the world of jackets seems to have opened up to me. My only bitch about shopping for new clothes lies in not what is visible, but what is invisible, or I should say, unmentionable.
Finding a perfect bra is like trying to climb Mt. Rainier in a wet suit. You may start out good and optimistic, but once you get into it, you realize you are way over your head, and any help you try to enlist is going to be expensive and embarrassing. The last time I tried to do quality bra hunting was my after baby excursion in early 2004. The fact is, once your tits go through lactation, they are never the same again. I gained an entire cup size, and not in the cool, glamorous, Hollywood way. After searching on my own, with no luck, I ended up exposing my less than fabulous chest to a small Asian woman in a Nordstrom dressing room. She measured me, and then talked me into buying very expensive bras that never quite fit that comfortably.
On the upside, I didn’t wear those pricy braziers long, because I lost enough weight to dig some oldies, but goodies out of the “prior to baby” clothing drawer. The three bras were still in fairly decent shape, but time seems to make one forget little quirks. The two white bras had a little squeak to them. Yes, that’s right, after wearing them for about an hour, if I shifted my body to either the left or right, they let out a muffled creak similar to wearing squeaky shoes. The black bra didn’t have the same oddly noisy foible, but it was beginning to show its wear. After spending an event committee meeting being a little too paranoid about my squeaky bra situation, I knew I had to bite the bullet and find a new method to keep the twins front and center.
On my first outing, I took Jeff and Rachael with me. This was really stupid. Jeff perched himself on the comfortable, padded bench in the Macy’s basement playing games on his cell phone, while Rachael followed me through aisles of bras. Like a tranny that just got his new tits, Rachael danced through the rows with excitement touching a variety of braziers. When she spotted a pinkish colored garment she would stop dead in her tracks and yell, “pinky Mommy, pinky, pinky.” It was too cute. She would survey the selection carefully picking out her favorites, then showing them to me with enthusiasm. Unfortunately, what my toddler failed to realize was that she picked the pretty, lacy, colorful bras, and those are only for little tittied girls. I am a DD, and they don’t give DD size bras descriptions like “fun” and “flirtatious,” which is okay by me, because when you have a pair of DDs, you don’t need to decorate them with foo foo and lace.
I probably tried on 20 bras before throwing in the towel. I went home that night and began to try and gauge exactly how much mileage I could get out of my squeaky whites and my ratty black. I also wondered how much recovery time I would need if I just had the breast lift surgery, but decided that was not an option at this point in my life, because I have a big trip coming up in December. Plus, if I ended up getting the tits lifted now, and decided to have another kid, then lactation will destroy at least $5,000 worth of work, and my husband would consider it too wasteful to pay for a second breast lift.
The next day, I went out alone, returning to the mall for one last try. I found myself in the basement of JC Penney surveying the selection, which leads me to another question, ‘why the hell are the bras and panties always relegated to the basement!?!’ Is our society still that fucking Puritanical? I struck gold on my shopping trip, because out of the five bras that I brought back to the dressing room, the first one I tried on fit comfortably and made my boobs look good. They were also on sale and there was an offer for a buy three, get one free!
I’m set for now, thankfully, but I still hate shopping for bras. I can only hope that as I continue to drop weight it will not be necessary for me to go through this bra shopping experience again until I reach my goal. Then I will suck it up, head to the mall, and avoid the pretty bras once again. Just for amusement, I will take Rachael, because watching someone so young get that excited about bras is humorous, yet slightly disturbing.
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
A Chico's Kind of Day
I felt good today when I came home to my disaster of a house. I was uber productive at work finishing an enormous list and many letters to prepare for the big benefit auction. I spent all day wearing a fabulous outfit that included a stylish shirt that I haven’t been able to fit into for four years. We had dinner at a restaurant and Rachael was actually well behaved. Today was a complete score until Jeff got the mail.
There are very few moments in life that have made me feel like I was getting old: watching my baby become more and more of a person everyday, noticing the tiny lines forming under my eyes (namely due to the baby that is becoming of a person), and the new copy of the Chico’s catalog staring me in the face. What a way to ruin a good day.
Let me say, that I have nothing personally against Chico’s. They make decent, upscale clothing for upper middle class women. However, usually those women are at least 20 years my senior. At first I tried to remain in denial, maybe this catalog was for the woman who used to live here. She might have only been a few years older than me, but she was the type that would have been happy wearing Chico’s. I closed my eyes tightly as I turned the catalog over, and unfortunately, my name was printed in black on the white block.
How could all of those target marketers be so wrong? Just last week, I got two samples of Stage 4 Pampers, so they know I have a baby. I realize in-vitro is becoming the “in” thing to do, but I don’t think there are too many women putting in for early retirement, while changing stinky toddler diapers. It’s not as if I haven’t left a very hip paper trail for those advertisers. I subscribe to The Nation, BUST, and Bitch Magazine, and support youthful causes. Maybe it was the Martha Stewart Living gift subscription that my in-laws gave me for Hanukkah that warranted the attention of Chico’s, but to my defense, I only got interested in the domestic goddess after she became a martyred felon.
I flipped through the Chico’s catalog to make sure that I had not unfairly judged the clothing retailer, but I was dead on the money. I don’t know any woman under the age of 50 who would be caught dead in this gear. Actually, I don’t know any non-Caucasian, upper middle class, suburb mother whose children were going to be entering college next year, and has a husband who is warding off his midlife crisis by purchasing a hot car and getting hair plugs, who would be caught dead in these clothes. I may be living in the ‘burbs, but thankfully, I haven’t given into most of the suburb conventions including the vacuous cocktail parties and the white bread clothing.
Tonight when I get ready for bed, no matter how awesome my workout is, I know I’m going to spend an extra ten minutes examining my face in the mirror. I don’t mind getting older, but I hate living in a culture that continuously lowers the “over the hill” age for women. When I was in high school, women in their late 20s/early 30s were considered prime, but by the time I entered my mid-20s, I was the perfect age. Now that I’m in my early 30s, girls in their late teens and early 20s are being touted as most desirable. I guess as long as stupid men drive marketing, the situation will continue to get more pathetic. All I can do is hope that by the time my Rachael enters 5th grade, I won’t have to worry about 20-something dumbfucks in their tricked out Scions cruising her elementary school.
My aging obsession is touch and go. I’m not going to turn into one of those scary Frankenstein, plastic surgery broads who get everything tucked, sucked and lifted. However, I’m not completely opposed to a small surgical refresher right before my 20 year high school reunion. I will, most likely, wake up tomorrow feeling as young and fabulous as I did this morning. I will style my non-gray hair, apply moisturizing makeup to my youthful face, and wear something that makes me feel vibrant. Then I will do myself a favor by making a strong cup of coffee and toss the catalog in the trash, because tomorrow is not going to be a Chico’s kind of day.
There are very few moments in life that have made me feel like I was getting old: watching my baby become more and more of a person everyday, noticing the tiny lines forming under my eyes (namely due to the baby that is becoming of a person), and the new copy of the Chico’s catalog staring me in the face. What a way to ruin a good day.
Let me say, that I have nothing personally against Chico’s. They make decent, upscale clothing for upper middle class women. However, usually those women are at least 20 years my senior. At first I tried to remain in denial, maybe this catalog was for the woman who used to live here. She might have only been a few years older than me, but she was the type that would have been happy wearing Chico’s. I closed my eyes tightly as I turned the catalog over, and unfortunately, my name was printed in black on the white block.
How could all of those target marketers be so wrong? Just last week, I got two samples of Stage 4 Pampers, so they know I have a baby. I realize in-vitro is becoming the “in” thing to do, but I don’t think there are too many women putting in for early retirement, while changing stinky toddler diapers. It’s not as if I haven’t left a very hip paper trail for those advertisers. I subscribe to The Nation, BUST, and Bitch Magazine, and support youthful causes. Maybe it was the Martha Stewart Living gift subscription that my in-laws gave me for Hanukkah that warranted the attention of Chico’s, but to my defense, I only got interested in the domestic goddess after she became a martyred felon.
I flipped through the Chico’s catalog to make sure that I had not unfairly judged the clothing retailer, but I was dead on the money. I don’t know any woman under the age of 50 who would be caught dead in this gear. Actually, I don’t know any non-Caucasian, upper middle class, suburb mother whose children were going to be entering college next year, and has a husband who is warding off his midlife crisis by purchasing a hot car and getting hair plugs, who would be caught dead in these clothes. I may be living in the ‘burbs, but thankfully, I haven’t given into most of the suburb conventions including the vacuous cocktail parties and the white bread clothing.
Tonight when I get ready for bed, no matter how awesome my workout is, I know I’m going to spend an extra ten minutes examining my face in the mirror. I don’t mind getting older, but I hate living in a culture that continuously lowers the “over the hill” age for women. When I was in high school, women in their late 20s/early 30s were considered prime, but by the time I entered my mid-20s, I was the perfect age. Now that I’m in my early 30s, girls in their late teens and early 20s are being touted as most desirable. I guess as long as stupid men drive marketing, the situation will continue to get more pathetic. All I can do is hope that by the time my Rachael enters 5th grade, I won’t have to worry about 20-something dumbfucks in their tricked out Scions cruising her elementary school.
My aging obsession is touch and go. I’m not going to turn into one of those scary Frankenstein, plastic surgery broads who get everything tucked, sucked and lifted. However, I’m not completely opposed to a small surgical refresher right before my 20 year high school reunion. I will, most likely, wake up tomorrow feeling as young and fabulous as I did this morning. I will style my non-gray hair, apply moisturizing makeup to my youthful face, and wear something that makes me feel vibrant. Then I will do myself a favor by making a strong cup of coffee and toss the catalog in the trash, because tomorrow is not going to be a Chico’s kind of day.
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Setting the Record Straight on Kabbalah
I’m no stranger to sounding off. I have lots of opinions about everything and I’ve never been afraid to share and defend those positions. For the past couple of years I have noticed a trend in popular culture that is driving me crazier than most popular culture trends usually do. A few weeks ago it hit a boiling point, and now I, and I, alone will set the record straight. It is my duty as an outspoken person, a critic of sociology, a mouthy punk, and a member of the Jewish faith. Let me say, once and for all, those Hollywood shitheads have no clue what Kabbalah is all about, so I have taken upon myself to give everyone the secret 411 about the red string, the Los Angeles Kabbalah centers and the correct method of ritualistically slaughtering chickens when practicing Kabbalah. Just kidding about the chickens!
Let me start by defining what Kabbalah is in the most simplest of terms, and best of all, unlike the L.A. Kabbalah Center, I won’t charge you $1,000 for the explanation. Kabbalah is the study of Jewish mysticism, or the way in which G-d interacts with our world. G-d is said to be hidden, which allows us to have the free will to choose between good and evil. Therefore, Kabbalah at its basic level is the study of how that hidden G-d interacts with the physical world we live in.
I could tell you more, but according to a very strict Jewish law, I’m not allowed to study Kabbalah until the age of 40. That’s right, no Kabbalah until 40, so anyone in their early 20s taking Kabbalah is full of shit. The purpose of waiting until you’re 40 is simple and practical, much like all of Judaism. People used to kill over at anywhere from 50-60 years old, so at 40 you were basically at third base running for home. It was cool to begin studying how G-d related and manifests himself in the physical world, because you weren’t going to be in that world much longer. Basically, your study of Kabbalah coincided with the fact that you were getting to the end of your life.
When I read that Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher, neither one of which are Jewish, had a Kabbalah wedding, the “what the fuck” ran through my head. I don’t mind so much that they aren’t Jewish, because unlike every other faith in the world, Jews believe that you don’t have to be a Jew in order to have a relationship with G-d. That’s right; you can be a Christian, Muslim, or Hindu and still have a quality relationship with the G-d of Moses and Israel without being a Jew. If you are a Jew, however, you have obligations to fulfill, and the rabbi would like to speak to you about those obligations.
Back to the Demi-Ashton wedding. Since you study Kabbalah as a means for preparing for your transformation from this world to the next, how is it possible to have a Kabbalah wedding? Very simple, it’s called expensive and creative marketing of a sacred element of the Jewish faith to vacuous idiots who are willing to pay top dollar to believe that they’ve uncovered some mysterious secret of the universe that only someone of their stature should be privy to.
I would like to credit every Jew with having a higher sense of morality, but that would be a stereotype. Unfortunately, those rabbis who run the L.A. Kabbalah Center teaching complex elements of the faith to intellectuals such as Brittney Spears, Madonna, and Paris Hilton have either completely discarded their moral compass or they recognize a sweet-ass money maker when they see it. At the very least, they should have their ordinations pulled, and be bitch slapped by at least a dozen elderly Orthodox rabbis.
Studying Kabbalah isn’t a bad thing, and if those who aren’t Jewish want to learn about it, there’s nothing wrong with that. However, in order to understand Kabbalah, one has to have a thorough understanding of the Torah (Jewish bible), and the other books of extensive commentary that accompany it. Basically, it takes several years of studying the Torah to prepare for Kabbalah study, and as everyone knows, asking someone in Hollywood to commit to something for several years is neither glamorous nor realistic.
Unscrupulous rabbis might be selling Kabbalah as some sort of magical understanding of the way the world works, but at its heart, Kabbalah is merely the study of how G-d relates to the physical world. There is nothing Harry Potter about Kabbalah. You won’t be able to cast spells, move things with your mind, or ward off bad things happening to you by wearing a piece of red string.
As for the Kabbalah weddings, I’ve never attended one, and doubt I will be invited to in the future given the fact that I don’t live in L.A. or happen to be friendly with anyone whose idiot level would make them pay top dollar for a Kabbalah wedding. If I do happen to encounter a staunch L.A. style Kabbalist who swears that the red string is legit, I will be happy to sell them that piece of string for a discounted price of $25.
Let me start by defining what Kabbalah is in the most simplest of terms, and best of all, unlike the L.A. Kabbalah Center, I won’t charge you $1,000 for the explanation. Kabbalah is the study of Jewish mysticism, or the way in which G-d interacts with our world. G-d is said to be hidden, which allows us to have the free will to choose between good and evil. Therefore, Kabbalah at its basic level is the study of how that hidden G-d interacts with the physical world we live in.
I could tell you more, but according to a very strict Jewish law, I’m not allowed to study Kabbalah until the age of 40. That’s right, no Kabbalah until 40, so anyone in their early 20s taking Kabbalah is full of shit. The purpose of waiting until you’re 40 is simple and practical, much like all of Judaism. People used to kill over at anywhere from 50-60 years old, so at 40 you were basically at third base running for home. It was cool to begin studying how G-d related and manifests himself in the physical world, because you weren’t going to be in that world much longer. Basically, your study of Kabbalah coincided with the fact that you were getting to the end of your life.
When I read that Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher, neither one of which are Jewish, had a Kabbalah wedding, the “what the fuck” ran through my head. I don’t mind so much that they aren’t Jewish, because unlike every other faith in the world, Jews believe that you don’t have to be a Jew in order to have a relationship with G-d. That’s right; you can be a Christian, Muslim, or Hindu and still have a quality relationship with the G-d of Moses and Israel without being a Jew. If you are a Jew, however, you have obligations to fulfill, and the rabbi would like to speak to you about those obligations.
Back to the Demi-Ashton wedding. Since you study Kabbalah as a means for preparing for your transformation from this world to the next, how is it possible to have a Kabbalah wedding? Very simple, it’s called expensive and creative marketing of a sacred element of the Jewish faith to vacuous idiots who are willing to pay top dollar to believe that they’ve uncovered some mysterious secret of the universe that only someone of their stature should be privy to.
I would like to credit every Jew with having a higher sense of morality, but that would be a stereotype. Unfortunately, those rabbis who run the L.A. Kabbalah Center teaching complex elements of the faith to intellectuals such as Brittney Spears, Madonna, and Paris Hilton have either completely discarded their moral compass or they recognize a sweet-ass money maker when they see it. At the very least, they should have their ordinations pulled, and be bitch slapped by at least a dozen elderly Orthodox rabbis.
Studying Kabbalah isn’t a bad thing, and if those who aren’t Jewish want to learn about it, there’s nothing wrong with that. However, in order to understand Kabbalah, one has to have a thorough understanding of the Torah (Jewish bible), and the other books of extensive commentary that accompany it. Basically, it takes several years of studying the Torah to prepare for Kabbalah study, and as everyone knows, asking someone in Hollywood to commit to something for several years is neither glamorous nor realistic.
Unscrupulous rabbis might be selling Kabbalah as some sort of magical understanding of the way the world works, but at its heart, Kabbalah is merely the study of how G-d relates to the physical world. There is nothing Harry Potter about Kabbalah. You won’t be able to cast spells, move things with your mind, or ward off bad things happening to you by wearing a piece of red string.
As for the Kabbalah weddings, I’ve never attended one, and doubt I will be invited to in the future given the fact that I don’t live in L.A. or happen to be friendly with anyone whose idiot level would make them pay top dollar for a Kabbalah wedding. If I do happen to encounter a staunch L.A. style Kabbalist who swears that the red string is legit, I will be happy to sell them that piece of string for a discounted price of $25.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Traffic Woes
There are very few things in this world that turn me into a complete nutcase. In fact, I credit myself with the ability to remain calm in the middle of a humungous shitstorm. I’ve done event where major things have gone wrong, but I never lose my cool. To date the only things that drive me up a wall is my daughter’s whining and my husband asking me the same question for the millionth time. That all changed at the beginning of the week when I discovered a new form of torture the likes of which would make Abu Gharib look like a drunken frat party: Seattle traffic.
It was early Monday morning, way too early, and I had to be at The Facility for the enriching and interesting orientation program. It started at 8:00 a.m. and was in a small town near the SeaTac International Airport. Fortunately I live just ten miles away from the airport, so my commute should have only been 20 minutes max. In an ideal world where my house is never dirty and I could attend a birthday party without thinking about cake the whole time, this would have been true, but we don’t live in that wonderful fantasy world, we live in a cruel world congested with gas-sucking automobiles. On this particular morning as I left the house at 7:15 a.m. under the illusion that I had plenty of time, all of those aforementioned autos were in front of me, and were going an average of five miles per hour.
I headed down the hill to try and get on the highway, but the line began just as I hit the breaks easing into the steep grade. For the next couple of days I referred to this moment as “joining the lineup”. It would take ten minutes just to get down one fucking little hill, and on that early Monday morning, I was a half an hour late. That’s right; I left my house with 45 minutes to get to a destination that was ten miles away and I was 30 minutes late. We never discussed this problem in Algebra, and even if we did, I was too busy flirting with the cute guy that sat directly in front of me, so I wouldn’t have been listening anyway.
The second day I decided to be wiser. I left at 7:05 a.m., and took the secret back route that only I knew. Unfortunately, I hadn’t realized that during my two year retirement when I stayed home to watch Rachael, other people, evil commuters, had discovered my super secret route and were now using it without my permission. I was only 15 minutes late on Tuesday, which was an improvement, but still quite irritating.
The final day of orientation, I left at 7:00 a.m. straight up, and was only five minutes late. Fortunately, when I arrived at my permanent place of work, I discovered that the only person in my department who reported to work at 8:00 a.m. was the guy who lives within walking distance. Thursday I was able to leave at 8:30 a.m. and make it to work early, and that trip from my house included me dropping my smelly dog off at the groomer.
The difference in just traveling one hour later saved me 40-60 minutes. I should be happy about this, but frankly I am extremely puzzled. I am as perplexed about this traffic conundrum as I was the first time someone told me that he was dumping me, because he loved me too much. What kind of fucked up place do I live in that ten miles done at one hour equals 60 minutes, whereas ten miles done that very 60 minutes later equal 20 minutes? The sick, sad thing is not the complexity of the space/time continuum involved with the mass particle transfers known as traffic, it’s that I’m thinking way too hard about it when I should be concentrating on something more important like if we should take a road trip up to Vancouver, B.C. this weekend.
Seattle has many things going for it, but unfortunately the county Seattle resides in is run by a bunch of corrupt fuckheads who would rather use their political power to make money and advance their careers instead of doing something legitimately helpful for the citizenry. Why doesn’t Seattle have a decent mass transit system, that’s the 3 billion dollar question. Actually, it was 3 billion dollars, until this asshole they hired to oversee the monorail project that would have made this city run better, fucked with the numbers, now it’s up to 11 billion. Thankfully, they fired his ass, but now the mass transit system that should have been in place ten years ago is on hold indefinitely.
Much like all of those Hollywood shitheads thinking that Jews know some sort of secret to unlocking the universe, and its called Kabbalah, traffic will never be something I completely understand. I may not be able to get from my house to the airport at 8:00 a.m. in less than 60 minutes, but at least I don’t have to. I can just kick back until 8:30 a.m., leave the house in peace and avoid the dreaded lineup.
It was early Monday morning, way too early, and I had to be at The Facility for the enriching and interesting orientation program. It started at 8:00 a.m. and was in a small town near the SeaTac International Airport. Fortunately I live just ten miles away from the airport, so my commute should have only been 20 minutes max. In an ideal world where my house is never dirty and I could attend a birthday party without thinking about cake the whole time, this would have been true, but we don’t live in that wonderful fantasy world, we live in a cruel world congested with gas-sucking automobiles. On this particular morning as I left the house at 7:15 a.m. under the illusion that I had plenty of time, all of those aforementioned autos were in front of me, and were going an average of five miles per hour.
I headed down the hill to try and get on the highway, but the line began just as I hit the breaks easing into the steep grade. For the next couple of days I referred to this moment as “joining the lineup”. It would take ten minutes just to get down one fucking little hill, and on that early Monday morning, I was a half an hour late. That’s right; I left my house with 45 minutes to get to a destination that was ten miles away and I was 30 minutes late. We never discussed this problem in Algebra, and even if we did, I was too busy flirting with the cute guy that sat directly in front of me, so I wouldn’t have been listening anyway.
The second day I decided to be wiser. I left at 7:05 a.m., and took the secret back route that only I knew. Unfortunately, I hadn’t realized that during my two year retirement when I stayed home to watch Rachael, other people, evil commuters, had discovered my super secret route and were now using it without my permission. I was only 15 minutes late on Tuesday, which was an improvement, but still quite irritating.
The final day of orientation, I left at 7:00 a.m. straight up, and was only five minutes late. Fortunately, when I arrived at my permanent place of work, I discovered that the only person in my department who reported to work at 8:00 a.m. was the guy who lives within walking distance. Thursday I was able to leave at 8:30 a.m. and make it to work early, and that trip from my house included me dropping my smelly dog off at the groomer.
The difference in just traveling one hour later saved me 40-60 minutes. I should be happy about this, but frankly I am extremely puzzled. I am as perplexed about this traffic conundrum as I was the first time someone told me that he was dumping me, because he loved me too much. What kind of fucked up place do I live in that ten miles done at one hour equals 60 minutes, whereas ten miles done that very 60 minutes later equal 20 minutes? The sick, sad thing is not the complexity of the space/time continuum involved with the mass particle transfers known as traffic, it’s that I’m thinking way too hard about it when I should be concentrating on something more important like if we should take a road trip up to Vancouver, B.C. this weekend.
Seattle has many things going for it, but unfortunately the county Seattle resides in is run by a bunch of corrupt fuckheads who would rather use their political power to make money and advance their careers instead of doing something legitimately helpful for the citizenry. Why doesn’t Seattle have a decent mass transit system, that’s the 3 billion dollar question. Actually, it was 3 billion dollars, until this asshole they hired to oversee the monorail project that would have made this city run better, fucked with the numbers, now it’s up to 11 billion. Thankfully, they fired his ass, but now the mass transit system that should have been in place ten years ago is on hold indefinitely.
Much like all of those Hollywood shitheads thinking that Jews know some sort of secret to unlocking the universe, and its called Kabbalah, traffic will never be something I completely understand. I may not be able to get from my house to the airport at 8:00 a.m. in less than 60 minutes, but at least I don’t have to. I can just kick back until 8:30 a.m., leave the house in peace and avoid the dreaded lineup.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Two Days of Orientation Hell
I know I’m going to love my job once I get into the thick of things, because that’s how I am. Throw me in the water head first, and I’ll find a way to make the ocean mine. I don’t mind the awkwardness of being the new person, or the struggle to learn everyone’s name. I’ve had so many jobs in my short life that starting a new job is like second nature. The one common denominator, the main thing I hate more than a chick flick about love starring Julia Roberts, the getting started element that drives me to insanity is the orientation.
Granted, some orientation is good. You have to know what your benefits look like, and safety procedures are a good thing to have lurking in the back of your brain in case of a disaster, but orientation is something that should be worthy of no more than a half a day of coverage.
For the sake of legality (i.e. not getting my ass sued into oblivion), I am not allowed, in my writings, to name my place of work or identify my co-workers specifically. What I can tell you is that my job as a Special Events Manager has absolutely nothing to do with the business conducted at the place I work at. I am part of a small team in the fundraising department, but the rest of the folks that work at, what I will in the future refer to as, The Facility, are highly trained and specifically skilled. Basically, I have been sitting through two days of a fucking orientation that doesn’t really apply to me.
While I am happy to internalize the uplifting mission statement of The Facility, hearing the fourth person ask me for examples of each facet of the mission statement for the 100th time began to make me wonder why the hell I was there. Do I really want to spend my life in a regular job working regular hours with other suburban consumers highly trained in specialized fields?
As the way too perky training guru gave her never-ending shpeal about how to handle patrons to The Facility, I let my mind wander about everything from how my daughter might be doing at daycare to why Nate Fisher on Six Feet Under continued to hook up with Brenda once he found out her whole family was wacko.
Finally, one hour before lunch, Princess Perky broke us up into groups based on our personalities. I found out today that I’m a Green, or the “planner,” which is good for them considering that I have to start working on their major fundraising auction as soon as I’m done with the redundant, non-applicable bevy of information they are throwing at me. The rest of the personality exercise was humorous, but any sort of amusement ended there.
During the lunch break, I ate an over-priced salad and wandered around The Facility, but there wasn’t much to look at. The Facility I’m training at won’t be the one I will actually work at, because this particular organization has one main facility, a specialized facility, which will be my hub, and satellite facilities.
I pretty much zoned out for the last part of orientation, which has started every morning at 8:00 a.m. sharp. Thank goodness I’m not one of those clock in/clock out people, because I would be so fired. In fact, anymore, to save embarrassment and exasperation, I make sure that any job I take doesn’t require me to be in before 9:00 a.m. and will allow a flexible ten minutes given the flow of Seattle traffic, which I can tell you now sucks major ass.
Tomorrow is the last part of orientation. We will talk about having a sexual harassment free facility. Hopefully, if there is a G-d, we will get to watch another exciting training video to compliment the explanation of the boring policy. Those videos rock! They were all made in the ‘80s so every one of the actors, even the guys, has a really bad hairdo and major shoulder pads. These videos rival porn and local television commercials for the worst acting of all times, and I fear that I enjoy them way too much. I can guarantee you one thing, if they ask for volunteers to do a scenario of a sexual harassment situation; I will scramble to be the harasser.
Hopefully, after lunch when I report to my actual job, all of my fear and trepidation about taking a “regular” job will disappear, and I will lose myself in doing the event. If not, I know I will spend many hours over-analyzing every little detail of my life, my work, my purpose for being, but what can I say, I’m a Green and that’s what we do.
Granted, some orientation is good. You have to know what your benefits look like, and safety procedures are a good thing to have lurking in the back of your brain in case of a disaster, but orientation is something that should be worthy of no more than a half a day of coverage.
For the sake of legality (i.e. not getting my ass sued into oblivion), I am not allowed, in my writings, to name my place of work or identify my co-workers specifically. What I can tell you is that my job as a Special Events Manager has absolutely nothing to do with the business conducted at the place I work at. I am part of a small team in the fundraising department, but the rest of the folks that work at, what I will in the future refer to as, The Facility, are highly trained and specifically skilled. Basically, I have been sitting through two days of a fucking orientation that doesn’t really apply to me.
While I am happy to internalize the uplifting mission statement of The Facility, hearing the fourth person ask me for examples of each facet of the mission statement for the 100th time began to make me wonder why the hell I was there. Do I really want to spend my life in a regular job working regular hours with other suburban consumers highly trained in specialized fields?
As the way too perky training guru gave her never-ending shpeal about how to handle patrons to The Facility, I let my mind wander about everything from how my daughter might be doing at daycare to why Nate Fisher on Six Feet Under continued to hook up with Brenda once he found out her whole family was wacko.
Finally, one hour before lunch, Princess Perky broke us up into groups based on our personalities. I found out today that I’m a Green, or the “planner,” which is good for them considering that I have to start working on their major fundraising auction as soon as I’m done with the redundant, non-applicable bevy of information they are throwing at me. The rest of the personality exercise was humorous, but any sort of amusement ended there.
During the lunch break, I ate an over-priced salad and wandered around The Facility, but there wasn’t much to look at. The Facility I’m training at won’t be the one I will actually work at, because this particular organization has one main facility, a specialized facility, which will be my hub, and satellite facilities.
I pretty much zoned out for the last part of orientation, which has started every morning at 8:00 a.m. sharp. Thank goodness I’m not one of those clock in/clock out people, because I would be so fired. In fact, anymore, to save embarrassment and exasperation, I make sure that any job I take doesn’t require me to be in before 9:00 a.m. and will allow a flexible ten minutes given the flow of Seattle traffic, which I can tell you now sucks major ass.
Tomorrow is the last part of orientation. We will talk about having a sexual harassment free facility. Hopefully, if there is a G-d, we will get to watch another exciting training video to compliment the explanation of the boring policy. Those videos rock! They were all made in the ‘80s so every one of the actors, even the guys, has a really bad hairdo and major shoulder pads. These videos rival porn and local television commercials for the worst acting of all times, and I fear that I enjoy them way too much. I can guarantee you one thing, if they ask for volunteers to do a scenario of a sexual harassment situation; I will scramble to be the harasser.
Hopefully, after lunch when I report to my actual job, all of my fear and trepidation about taking a “regular” job will disappear, and I will lose myself in doing the event. If not, I know I will spend many hours over-analyzing every little detail of my life, my work, my purpose for being, but what can I say, I’m a Green and that’s what we do.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Starving & Chest-Beating: The Many Joys of Yom Kippur
Every year, Jews are required to engage in a ritualistic fast to beg the Almighty for forgiveness for the previous year’s sin. This oh so joyous occasion where you stand for hours reciting prayers admitting that you are unworthy to be there in the first place is known as Yom Kippur. It’s a 24+ hour test of humility that isn’t for the weak.
It begins the night before on Erev Yom Kippur. Although you are supposed to eat a light meal before starting a fast, no one I’ve ever met actually does that. My family, like most others, goes into pig out mode, because if we have to go the next 24 and change without a bite to eat, much like camels with water in their humps, we want to store enough food in our stomachs to last us through the fast. Of course, this logic never works, and despite waking up late the next day, we are always hungry by 3:00 PM.
The difficult part of Yom Kippur, for me, isn’t foregoing food. Fortunately, I live in a shallow, pop culture driven society that trains women in the art of starvation at a very young age. As a teenager, I would go an entire week on a piece of dry toast in the morning and three ounces of tuna fish on a leaf of lettuce at night for dinner. By the end of that week I could barely walk, but my jeans fit perfectly!
The hardest part of Yom Kippur is refraining from drinking. By drinking I don’t mean hitting the bottle and stumbling to bed, I mean no water. On a particularly warm day, which doesn’t happen much in October in the Seattle area, I could drink an entire lake’s worth of water. My non-alcoholic drink of choice has always been water, and I do a minimum of 60 ounces a day. The moment the fast commences, I’m not running for the lox and bagel table, I’m running for the water fountain. Like I said before, the yearly Yom Kippur fast is not for the weak.
Lest all non-Jews think we are a brutal faith, there are definitely exceptions when it comes to fasting. Pregnant and nursing women are exempt, as are children, the elderly and the sick. Everyone else who chooses not to do the fast sighting some bullshit “hypoglycemic” condition gets zero respect from me as well as a constant referral to them as a whiney little bitch. By the end of the day, we all have headaches and are ready to pass out. Everyone in the room is grumpy, tired, thirsty, and ready to eat the wallpaper, but damn it, that’s the beauty of Yom Kippur. How do you expect to be forgiven for all of the bad shit you’ve done over the year if you aren’t willing to suffer just a little bit first. Considering some of the things I’ve done over the year, starving for a few hours is a decent trade.
Other interesting aspects of Yom Kippur involve the specific prayers where you are commanded to knock yourself in the chest every time you recite one of the transgressions such as lying, stealing, talking crap about someone behind their back, etc. Even if you didn’t do one of the items listed, such as stealing, you still have to ask forgiveness for it. The rabbi explains that you may be responsible for doing something bad even if you weren’t aware of it, so you might as well ask for forgiveness just to cover your own ass, in a spiritual sense.
At the end of the day everyone is swaying, trying to stay on their feet, and counting the number of pages left in the prayer book. The rabbi is going into hyper-speed mode trying to finish, because he knows everyone is looking at their watch with a glint in their eye as if to say, “you go one minute over, and I’ll beat you to death with a smoked whitefish.” Then at the blowing of the shofar, an actual ram’s horn that makes a weird, high-pitched noise, it’s over.
Last night, the other ladies and I went to get everything set up, while the guys finished praying. I made sure to start my bagel sandwich before the men were let out of services, because much like a horde of wild boars, they charged the food table pillaging the lox (delicious smoked salmon).
The best part about this yearly ritual is that deep down, I know I don’t have to do it. I’m there starving and beating my chest, because I choose to be. I’ve often heard people who are very atheist or anti-G-d claim that religion is only for the weak. Maybe they are right, but not when it comes to my faith. Jews are the most murdered people throughout history, yet we still persist. For the ten Jews who are standing in a synagogue or gathering place beating their chests on Yom Kippur, there is one who isn’t.
I fast on Yom Kippur and observe traditional services, because I’m one of the ones who is able to, by choice, utilize this method of understanding to try to figure out how to live my life. I may not understand why things happen the way they do, but the clarity I do have is partially credited to my identity, which is a Jewish one. For the rest of the year, I can sit back, relax, and enjoy food, until Yom Kippur rolls around again, when I’ll get to, once again, enjoy the pleasures of light-headedness as I stand in place, praying, starving, beating my chest and begging for forgiveness. Like I said, forgiveness for a year’s worth of bad shit doesn’t come easy.
It begins the night before on Erev Yom Kippur. Although you are supposed to eat a light meal before starting a fast, no one I’ve ever met actually does that. My family, like most others, goes into pig out mode, because if we have to go the next 24 and change without a bite to eat, much like camels with water in their humps, we want to store enough food in our stomachs to last us through the fast. Of course, this logic never works, and despite waking up late the next day, we are always hungry by 3:00 PM.
The difficult part of Yom Kippur, for me, isn’t foregoing food. Fortunately, I live in a shallow, pop culture driven society that trains women in the art of starvation at a very young age. As a teenager, I would go an entire week on a piece of dry toast in the morning and three ounces of tuna fish on a leaf of lettuce at night for dinner. By the end of that week I could barely walk, but my jeans fit perfectly!
The hardest part of Yom Kippur is refraining from drinking. By drinking I don’t mean hitting the bottle and stumbling to bed, I mean no water. On a particularly warm day, which doesn’t happen much in October in the Seattle area, I could drink an entire lake’s worth of water. My non-alcoholic drink of choice has always been water, and I do a minimum of 60 ounces a day. The moment the fast commences, I’m not running for the lox and bagel table, I’m running for the water fountain. Like I said before, the yearly Yom Kippur fast is not for the weak.
Lest all non-Jews think we are a brutal faith, there are definitely exceptions when it comes to fasting. Pregnant and nursing women are exempt, as are children, the elderly and the sick. Everyone else who chooses not to do the fast sighting some bullshit “hypoglycemic” condition gets zero respect from me as well as a constant referral to them as a whiney little bitch. By the end of the day, we all have headaches and are ready to pass out. Everyone in the room is grumpy, tired, thirsty, and ready to eat the wallpaper, but damn it, that’s the beauty of Yom Kippur. How do you expect to be forgiven for all of the bad shit you’ve done over the year if you aren’t willing to suffer just a little bit first. Considering some of the things I’ve done over the year, starving for a few hours is a decent trade.
Other interesting aspects of Yom Kippur involve the specific prayers where you are commanded to knock yourself in the chest every time you recite one of the transgressions such as lying, stealing, talking crap about someone behind their back, etc. Even if you didn’t do one of the items listed, such as stealing, you still have to ask forgiveness for it. The rabbi explains that you may be responsible for doing something bad even if you weren’t aware of it, so you might as well ask for forgiveness just to cover your own ass, in a spiritual sense.
At the end of the day everyone is swaying, trying to stay on their feet, and counting the number of pages left in the prayer book. The rabbi is going into hyper-speed mode trying to finish, because he knows everyone is looking at their watch with a glint in their eye as if to say, “you go one minute over, and I’ll beat you to death with a smoked whitefish.” Then at the blowing of the shofar, an actual ram’s horn that makes a weird, high-pitched noise, it’s over.
Last night, the other ladies and I went to get everything set up, while the guys finished praying. I made sure to start my bagel sandwich before the men were let out of services, because much like a horde of wild boars, they charged the food table pillaging the lox (delicious smoked salmon).
The best part about this yearly ritual is that deep down, I know I don’t have to do it. I’m there starving and beating my chest, because I choose to be. I’ve often heard people who are very atheist or anti-G-d claim that religion is only for the weak. Maybe they are right, but not when it comes to my faith. Jews are the most murdered people throughout history, yet we still persist. For the ten Jews who are standing in a synagogue or gathering place beating their chests on Yom Kippur, there is one who isn’t.
I fast on Yom Kippur and observe traditional services, because I’m one of the ones who is able to, by choice, utilize this method of understanding to try to figure out how to live my life. I may not understand why things happen the way they do, but the clarity I do have is partially credited to my identity, which is a Jewish one. For the rest of the year, I can sit back, relax, and enjoy food, until Yom Kippur rolls around again, when I’ll get to, once again, enjoy the pleasures of light-headedness as I stand in place, praying, starving, beating my chest and begging for forgiveness. Like I said, forgiveness for a year’s worth of bad shit doesn’t come easy.
Friday, October 14, 2005
And Oprah, I Think I'll Miss You Most of All
I start my new job on Monday, and although I’m thrilled to be going back to work after a two year retirement there will be a few things I know I’m going to miss. Of course, the major adjustment will be the reduction in time I’m with Rachael, but there are other, more subtle, aspects to my daily life that are going to no longer be a part of it.
Good-bye to bumming around in my nightgown. Most mornings find me adorned in my sleep apparel of choice and a fuzzy pair of pink, Sketchers slippers. Although I do make an effort to run a brush through my hair after my morning pee, any attempt to glamorize until after my shower ends there. For the most part, I hang out looking like crap until at least 11:00 AM. From now on, I’ll be trading in my slippers for a stylish pair of slacks, while exchanging my steel cut oatmeal that takes 20 minutes to cook for a cereal bar or a piece of gum.
I’m thankful for the time I’ve had to familiarize myself with nearly every game that MSN has to offer. I have scored several sweet badges in my badge album and accumulated many lifetime point awards. I’ve also been able to reach over 1 million in Rocket Mania; an accomplishment that is incredibly minute and completely asinine.
My afternoons will be filled with meaningful work from now on as opposed to my usual schedule: 1:00 PM – Days of Our Lives, 2:00 PM – Passions, and 3:00 PM – Oprah, with the option to watch Days of Our Lives on Soap Net at 4:00 PM if I missed the 1:00 PM airing. I remember when I was extremely pregnant and had finished working to go on maternity leave from my former job. Jeff made the snide remark that I would probably start watching soap operas. I denied this vehemently, but those beacons of overdone plots, mediocre acting, and complete detachment from reality made their way into my life as a captive mommy whose new baby wanted nothing more than to be held for hours on end.
Aside from my two soaps, there’s Oprah. Oh the many afternoons I will miss watching her attempt to do poignant recaps of the careers of celebrities I couldn’t give two shits less about. I don’t care about their overpaid careers, over dramatized personal lives, or what they have to say about their life, yet I watch faithfully, and I’ve never known why. Maybe Oprah has some magic spell that she weaves over the television viewing audience as well as those crazy bitches in the studio who seem to lose it every time she her voice articulates a word with a drawn out emphasis. Only Oprah could elicit the type of hysterical screaming that would cause me to jump up from a challenging game of Rocket Mania to turn the volume down on the t.v. lest the shouts wake the light sleeper who has only been down for a nap for an hour.
It’s always such an amazing site to see. Oprah standing in her studio introducing some tabloid bunny after trying to make her seem relevant: “Here she is Jennifeeeer Aaaannnistoooon.” Commence hysterical screaming from women!?! The scary thing is that I think Oprah could use that same articulation introducing anyone and she would most likely generate the exact same reaction. “Here he is live via satellite from maximum security prison, the BeeeeeeTeeeeeKaaaaay Killeeeeer!” Commence hysterical screaming.
Despite my recognition of this absurd level of pop culture worshipping mishagas I will miss the fair lady Oprah. I will also miss the 100,000 phone calls each day I get from Jeff asking me what I’m doing. Oh wait, actually those won’t stop, he’ll still call me endlessly like he has from the day we met.
To my credit, during many of those Oprah, Days, and Passions episodes, I did write several chapters of my new book. I also managed to raise a very alert, intelligent, curious, happy little toddler who knows how to count to ten, say “thank you” and “you’re welcome,” and can name most of the characters on Noggin.
All I can say now that my free-wheeling days are numbered is: Thank G-d I Have a Fucking Job Again! A listless and boring life of hanging out, playing video games, watching t.v. and playing with kids might be great if I was a 14 year old guy, but as a 32 year old woman with drive, ambition, and a work ethic, staying at home doing nothing sucks major ass.
I’m happy to retire from my retirement, and I’ll be driving to work next Monday with a smile on my face, sipping my large thermal cup of coffee, catching a few minutes of Howard Stern, and figuring out a way to make some quality computer game time during the weekend.
Good-bye to bumming around in my nightgown. Most mornings find me adorned in my sleep apparel of choice and a fuzzy pair of pink, Sketchers slippers. Although I do make an effort to run a brush through my hair after my morning pee, any attempt to glamorize until after my shower ends there. For the most part, I hang out looking like crap until at least 11:00 AM. From now on, I’ll be trading in my slippers for a stylish pair of slacks, while exchanging my steel cut oatmeal that takes 20 minutes to cook for a cereal bar or a piece of gum.
I’m thankful for the time I’ve had to familiarize myself with nearly every game that MSN has to offer. I have scored several sweet badges in my badge album and accumulated many lifetime point awards. I’ve also been able to reach over 1 million in Rocket Mania; an accomplishment that is incredibly minute and completely asinine.
My afternoons will be filled with meaningful work from now on as opposed to my usual schedule: 1:00 PM – Days of Our Lives, 2:00 PM – Passions, and 3:00 PM – Oprah, with the option to watch Days of Our Lives on Soap Net at 4:00 PM if I missed the 1:00 PM airing. I remember when I was extremely pregnant and had finished working to go on maternity leave from my former job. Jeff made the snide remark that I would probably start watching soap operas. I denied this vehemently, but those beacons of overdone plots, mediocre acting, and complete detachment from reality made their way into my life as a captive mommy whose new baby wanted nothing more than to be held for hours on end.
Aside from my two soaps, there’s Oprah. Oh the many afternoons I will miss watching her attempt to do poignant recaps of the careers of celebrities I couldn’t give two shits less about. I don’t care about their overpaid careers, over dramatized personal lives, or what they have to say about their life, yet I watch faithfully, and I’ve never known why. Maybe Oprah has some magic spell that she weaves over the television viewing audience as well as those crazy bitches in the studio who seem to lose it every time she her voice articulates a word with a drawn out emphasis. Only Oprah could elicit the type of hysterical screaming that would cause me to jump up from a challenging game of Rocket Mania to turn the volume down on the t.v. lest the shouts wake the light sleeper who has only been down for a nap for an hour.
It’s always such an amazing site to see. Oprah standing in her studio introducing some tabloid bunny after trying to make her seem relevant: “Here she is Jennifeeeer Aaaannnistoooon.” Commence hysterical screaming from women!?! The scary thing is that I think Oprah could use that same articulation introducing anyone and she would most likely generate the exact same reaction. “Here he is live via satellite from maximum security prison, the BeeeeeeTeeeeeKaaaaay Killeeeeer!” Commence hysterical screaming.
Despite my recognition of this absurd level of pop culture worshipping mishagas I will miss the fair lady Oprah. I will also miss the 100,000 phone calls each day I get from Jeff asking me what I’m doing. Oh wait, actually those won’t stop, he’ll still call me endlessly like he has from the day we met.
To my credit, during many of those Oprah, Days, and Passions episodes, I did write several chapters of my new book. I also managed to raise a very alert, intelligent, curious, happy little toddler who knows how to count to ten, say “thank you” and “you’re welcome,” and can name most of the characters on Noggin.
All I can say now that my free-wheeling days are numbered is: Thank G-d I Have a Fucking Job Again! A listless and boring life of hanging out, playing video games, watching t.v. and playing with kids might be great if I was a 14 year old guy, but as a 32 year old woman with drive, ambition, and a work ethic, staying at home doing nothing sucks major ass.
I’m happy to retire from my retirement, and I’ll be driving to work next Monday with a smile on my face, sipping my large thermal cup of coffee, catching a few minutes of Howard Stern, and figuring out a way to make some quality computer game time during the weekend.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
"Winners Don't Use Drugs"
There are some things in life that always seem to hit you funny, like finding that list you made in high school of the qualities you were looking for in your perfect mate. My perfect man had to have long, dark hair, be completely into Metallica, and willing to let me have Saturday nights to watch the Headbanger’s Ball with my friends, Christina and Christina. It’s 14 years later; both Christinas are gone as is the Headbanger’s Ball (at least the one that I loved), and the only thing my husband has in common with my high school age “perfect man” list is that he is, indeed, a man.
I was struck funny by something else this last weekend when Jeff and I decided to take Rachael on a family fun adventure to a place in Issaquah called Illusionz. Illusionz is one of those places that are an indoor activity center for kids during the day, and at night turns into the only place suburban teenagers can hang out and hook up without having to find a shopping mall. We went on a Sunday afternoon and the place was absolutely dead, which means no waiting in line for us. Yippee!
I took Rachael over to the enormous little kids play area filled with climbing decks, ball pits, slides and tons of colorful matting. After performing some championship wrestling holds on her in order to remove her shoes per the play area rules, she took off like a carjacker with Jeff in tow. As the two of them enjoyed climbing, sliding down, and more climbing, I decided to peruse the arcade. I was never much of a gamer, but every now and again like to partake in electronic video action as long as the controllers don’t have too many buttons and require a tremendous amount of skill and coordination.
Illusionz is a cool place, not because of the variety of games or the laser tag arena or even the obstacle castle that my munchkin spent most of the day conquering, no, this fun center rocks, because they carry Tron, Centipede, Mrs. Pac Man, Donkey Kong, and a few other games left over from the olden days (i.e. the ‘80s). I spent several Illusionz card credits trying to best my former Mrs. Pac Man score, unfortunately the game there had somewhat of a delayed joystick. Yeah, that’s right, the joystick was delayed. I did a few rounds of Tron, one quick game of Donkey Kong, and after indulging my nostalgia went to look for the shooting games.
I agree with most of the concerned mothers out there that some of the games produced nowadays contain way too much violence, but I also grew up in Idaho, so shooting can be something fun to do as long as your target isn’t human. For the record, I have never hunted anything, but have cousins who do. Personally, I believe the only correct way to hunt is to arm the game animals, dress the hunters in their underwear and cover them with cat piss, and then it’s a fair fight.
I took up a few shooting games and noticed one quirky message on all of the machines. After a good round of using the plastic rifle or Uzi with the neat, see-all scope to blow your opponent to hell and back, the game would end with a recap of your hits that included your kills, misses, and accuracy percentage. Then a weird message, complete with a government seal from the DEA would appear that blared “Winners Don’t Use Drugs”.
I guess this is true, winners don’t use drugs, but losers don’t necessarily use drugs either, and what about the people in between who aren’t trying to win or lose, they may or may not use drugs depending on the situation. I guess, according to the DEA, “Winners don’t use drugs,” instead winners take all that drug-using energy and spend it blowing the absolute fuck out of the animated adversary on the video game screen.
I’ve always been amazed at the government’s ass-backward approach to drugs. Most of our politicians live and run on the generous dole of pharmaceutical companies and refuse to make prescription drug advertisements on t.v. illegal, but if a hippie at a String Cheese Incident concert smokes a joint, then there’s a problem. I don’t get it. In my lifetime, I’ve been to alcohol parties and I’ve been to pot parties, and I can tell you that those pot parties never ended in a five-man fight with the police and an ambulance being called.
It’s fine if the government wants to send a positive message to kids, but to do it using a video game where you get an extra 600 points for shooting someone in the head as opposed to the body might not be the most effective means of transmission.
On the other hand, it’s funny. I had a wonderful laugh, which made me feel good after only nailing a lousy 78% accuracy rate. Next time I’ll have to make more of an effort to snipe at the guy’s head as I try my hardest to win by staying away from drugs.
I was struck funny by something else this last weekend when Jeff and I decided to take Rachael on a family fun adventure to a place in Issaquah called Illusionz. Illusionz is one of those places that are an indoor activity center for kids during the day, and at night turns into the only place suburban teenagers can hang out and hook up without having to find a shopping mall. We went on a Sunday afternoon and the place was absolutely dead, which means no waiting in line for us. Yippee!
I took Rachael over to the enormous little kids play area filled with climbing decks, ball pits, slides and tons of colorful matting. After performing some championship wrestling holds on her in order to remove her shoes per the play area rules, she took off like a carjacker with Jeff in tow. As the two of them enjoyed climbing, sliding down, and more climbing, I decided to peruse the arcade. I was never much of a gamer, but every now and again like to partake in electronic video action as long as the controllers don’t have too many buttons and require a tremendous amount of skill and coordination.
Illusionz is a cool place, not because of the variety of games or the laser tag arena or even the obstacle castle that my munchkin spent most of the day conquering, no, this fun center rocks, because they carry Tron, Centipede, Mrs. Pac Man, Donkey Kong, and a few other games left over from the olden days (i.e. the ‘80s). I spent several Illusionz card credits trying to best my former Mrs. Pac Man score, unfortunately the game there had somewhat of a delayed joystick. Yeah, that’s right, the joystick was delayed. I did a few rounds of Tron, one quick game of Donkey Kong, and after indulging my nostalgia went to look for the shooting games.
I agree with most of the concerned mothers out there that some of the games produced nowadays contain way too much violence, but I also grew up in Idaho, so shooting can be something fun to do as long as your target isn’t human. For the record, I have never hunted anything, but have cousins who do. Personally, I believe the only correct way to hunt is to arm the game animals, dress the hunters in their underwear and cover them with cat piss, and then it’s a fair fight.
I took up a few shooting games and noticed one quirky message on all of the machines. After a good round of using the plastic rifle or Uzi with the neat, see-all scope to blow your opponent to hell and back, the game would end with a recap of your hits that included your kills, misses, and accuracy percentage. Then a weird message, complete with a government seal from the DEA would appear that blared “Winners Don’t Use Drugs”.
I guess this is true, winners don’t use drugs, but losers don’t necessarily use drugs either, and what about the people in between who aren’t trying to win or lose, they may or may not use drugs depending on the situation. I guess, according to the DEA, “Winners don’t use drugs,” instead winners take all that drug-using energy and spend it blowing the absolute fuck out of the animated adversary on the video game screen.
I’ve always been amazed at the government’s ass-backward approach to drugs. Most of our politicians live and run on the generous dole of pharmaceutical companies and refuse to make prescription drug advertisements on t.v. illegal, but if a hippie at a String Cheese Incident concert smokes a joint, then there’s a problem. I don’t get it. In my lifetime, I’ve been to alcohol parties and I’ve been to pot parties, and I can tell you that those pot parties never ended in a five-man fight with the police and an ambulance being called.
It’s fine if the government wants to send a positive message to kids, but to do it using a video game where you get an extra 600 points for shooting someone in the head as opposed to the body might not be the most effective means of transmission.
On the other hand, it’s funny. I had a wonderful laugh, which made me feel good after only nailing a lousy 78% accuracy rate. Next time I’ll have to make more of an effort to snipe at the guy’s head as I try my hardest to win by staying away from drugs.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Looking Back on '65
Rosh Hashanah is the official celebration that welcomes in the Jewish New Year. It is a time when every Jew looks back at the year previous and takes a personal assessment of the events and their own actions. It’s also a good time to make a list of everything you are going to have to atone for in a few weeks when Yom Kippur rolls around.
When I look back at 5765, all I can say is that it started out shitty. Last Rosh Hashanah, we packed up the baby and went to a place called Camp Long in West Seattle. The main hall where the services and meals were held was nice, heated, and had a very friendly, comforting vibe. We intended to stay in one of the rustic looking cabins, but the moment I walked into it, I knew that we were leaving in between services. All I can say about those cabins is that perhaps having a Jewish thing in a place where the sleeping accommodations look very similar to concentration camp barracks isn’t such a good idea. Jeff nearly had a shit when he walked into the small room with wooden bunks. He called his uncle to tell him that right now we were sitting in either “Auschwitz or Dachau Cabin 12”.
Despite our questionable accommodations, that wasn’t the bad part. The bad part happened on our second night celebration when my sister called me panicked, because my mother had lost all movement and control of the left side of her body. Here I was at an orthodox Rosh Hashanah service on my cell phone, which is a big “no no” trying to talk my stepdad into taking Mom to the emergency room. In the end, after making a phone call to my Mom’s doctor, I knew that the brain tumor she had successfully fought back in 2000 had returned.
The next seven weeks of my life were spent commuting between Boise and Seattle trying to spend as much time with my mom as possible. Two weeks after we celebrated her 49th birthday, we buried her in a nice cemetery near the home she loved dearly.
Reflecting on the rest of 5765, all I can say is that it was somewhat uneventful and seems to have gone by so fast. We moved to our picturesque suburb in January. I spent the next few months desperately in love with my house, until Spring brought me clarity and I realized what the term “velvet sweatshop” meant. The realization that I was a punk stuck in Suburbia caused me to enter therapy shortly after celebrating both my sister’s and Jeff’s graduation where they received graduate degrees. I ditched therapy around mid-July when I started this blog.
I guess most of the positive highlights from this year came from my baby munchkin who started walking, talking, and, much to my chagrin, making demands. She developed a stubborn streak, a desire for all things Dora the Explorer, and has become quite the fashionista picking out her own outfits as well as going out of her way to tell me “yes” and “no” when I venture into the store’s dressing room with a variety of new shirts. Together we traveled across country to visit my Italian family in Connecticut, and enjoyed lazy afternoons at home. I took her to her first concert, and sent her to pre-school.
5766 will be quite a different year. I will begin working full-time again soon, which means Rachael will start daycare. I’m not too nervous about this since she is the only child in her pre-school class who will wave “goodbye” to me when I drop her off and cry when I pick her up. I guess she’s too young to utter the words, “Hey Ma, don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”
Rachael and I will make another solo trip across country in December to see my sister’s new baby; a little girl who will be born on Halloween, which was the freaky request of my brother-in-law. I look forward to finishing the book I’m currently working on, and possibly getting it published. I also am confident that I’ll be at my weight goal by the time we head out for our next big vacation in August.
I’m also looking forward to the complete implosion of the neo-con empire that has ruled with an evil iron fist over this country for the past six years, and will be incredibly delighted when people on the left and right clean house in the next major election. After all, the only good politician is a first or second term politician, after that they become tainted by power and money and let us good folks fall by the wayside.
Mostly, I hope by this time next year, I’m celebrating Rosh Hashanah 5767 with the same family, immediate and extended, that I have now, with health, happiness, and additions rather than subtractions.
When I look back at 5765, all I can say is that it started out shitty. Last Rosh Hashanah, we packed up the baby and went to a place called Camp Long in West Seattle. The main hall where the services and meals were held was nice, heated, and had a very friendly, comforting vibe. We intended to stay in one of the rustic looking cabins, but the moment I walked into it, I knew that we were leaving in between services. All I can say about those cabins is that perhaps having a Jewish thing in a place where the sleeping accommodations look very similar to concentration camp barracks isn’t such a good idea. Jeff nearly had a shit when he walked into the small room with wooden bunks. He called his uncle to tell him that right now we were sitting in either “Auschwitz or Dachau Cabin 12”.
Despite our questionable accommodations, that wasn’t the bad part. The bad part happened on our second night celebration when my sister called me panicked, because my mother had lost all movement and control of the left side of her body. Here I was at an orthodox Rosh Hashanah service on my cell phone, which is a big “no no” trying to talk my stepdad into taking Mom to the emergency room. In the end, after making a phone call to my Mom’s doctor, I knew that the brain tumor she had successfully fought back in 2000 had returned.
The next seven weeks of my life were spent commuting between Boise and Seattle trying to spend as much time with my mom as possible. Two weeks after we celebrated her 49th birthday, we buried her in a nice cemetery near the home she loved dearly.
Reflecting on the rest of 5765, all I can say is that it was somewhat uneventful and seems to have gone by so fast. We moved to our picturesque suburb in January. I spent the next few months desperately in love with my house, until Spring brought me clarity and I realized what the term “velvet sweatshop” meant. The realization that I was a punk stuck in Suburbia caused me to enter therapy shortly after celebrating both my sister’s and Jeff’s graduation where they received graduate degrees. I ditched therapy around mid-July when I started this blog.
I guess most of the positive highlights from this year came from my baby munchkin who started walking, talking, and, much to my chagrin, making demands. She developed a stubborn streak, a desire for all things Dora the Explorer, and has become quite the fashionista picking out her own outfits as well as going out of her way to tell me “yes” and “no” when I venture into the store’s dressing room with a variety of new shirts. Together we traveled across country to visit my Italian family in Connecticut, and enjoyed lazy afternoons at home. I took her to her first concert, and sent her to pre-school.
5766 will be quite a different year. I will begin working full-time again soon, which means Rachael will start daycare. I’m not too nervous about this since she is the only child in her pre-school class who will wave “goodbye” to me when I drop her off and cry when I pick her up. I guess she’s too young to utter the words, “Hey Ma, don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”
Rachael and I will make another solo trip across country in December to see my sister’s new baby; a little girl who will be born on Halloween, which was the freaky request of my brother-in-law. I look forward to finishing the book I’m currently working on, and possibly getting it published. I also am confident that I’ll be at my weight goal by the time we head out for our next big vacation in August.
I’m also looking forward to the complete implosion of the neo-con empire that has ruled with an evil iron fist over this country for the past six years, and will be incredibly delighted when people on the left and right clean house in the next major election. After all, the only good politician is a first or second term politician, after that they become tainted by power and money and let us good folks fall by the wayside.
Mostly, I hope by this time next year, I’m celebrating Rosh Hashanah 5767 with the same family, immediate and extended, that I have now, with health, happiness, and additions rather than subtractions.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Toxic Vixens
There are many reasons I’m happy that I’m not a guy. Jock itch issues, the inability to give birth, the fact that I can smile at other men and get attention easily without someone thinking I’m a mo are just a few reasons, but the main reason I’m glad I’m not a guy is because I am attracted to every evil, devious, scheming woman that comes across my t.v. screen.
Whether it’s Rebecca from Passions or Karen from Will & Grace, if there’s a dysfunctional, addicted, shallow bitch within 100 miles, I want to be front and center for all of her pithy comments and wicked plots. I think I’ve always been attracted to the wrong kind of woman. It started at a young age with a Scarlett O’Hara obsession and took off from there. As a six year old, my mother let me watch Gone with the Wind for the first time in hopes that I would want to emulate the character that shared my namesake; instead I hung on every catty word uttered by the gorgeous Scarlett. She had style, she had balls, and she had a man who was so into her. Even when Rhett walked out at the end of the film, I knew deep down in my heart that he would be back for more, because these mentally and verbally abusive chicks are passionate and exciting. Sure, they might need an entire drum of Prozac to keep from going off the deep end, but it’s never a dull moment with these dolls.
My love of the wrong woman continued as I got deeper into the world of elementary school. I was the girl who wanted to be the Wicked Witch of the West for Halloween, and secretly knew I was going to grow up to be Alexis Carrington after watching just a few episodes of Dynasty. I developed something of a Joan Collins fetish at age 11 when I snuck out of bed at 2:00 AM shortly after we got cable television and watched The Bitch.
Fortunately, by the time I reached junior high, my penchant for toxic ladies managed to net me friends who were complete headcases. I was the quiet listener, while my friends were anorexic, backstabbing, two-faced bitches who taught me valuable skills like how to lie, sneak out of the house, and cry on queue. It was all about them all of the time, and they would regularly cut our relationship off at will, only to phone me weeks later with a sappy, superficial apology that I would inevitably accept.
Oddly enough, my relationships with men haven’t been as dramatic. I have had quite a cache of normal boyfriends, dates, and lovers. My husband is a straight-laced, kind fellow with honor and ethics, so at this point I’m guessing that my saving grace from a lifetime of misery is entirely due to the fact that I’m a woman and not a man. If I was a man, I would, without a doubt, be paying alimony to some drunken ex-wife with more baggage than my brother-in-law on a two week vacation. I would endure endless late night phone calls filled with liquor, tears, and a slew of curse words. The sex might be fantastic, but the mind games that followed would be absolute hell.
By the time I left art school, I managed to rid my real world of toxic females and relegated my love of dangerous dysfunctional gals to the big and small screens. I love watching wicked women weave wonderful webs of wanton wreckage. I revel in their abilities to effectively destroy those around them knowing that those same masochists will be back for more. I watch Karen from Will & Grace insult and abuse the people around her and I’m fascinated by her drunken wit and cruel charm. I rarely miss an episode of Passions, because I want to see what the fabulous and spoiled Rebecca will do next. She’s a gal that likes to have fun, loves to have sex (particularly with younger men), and will do anything to keep her power and social status. Aside from my two television standbys, I am also the wacky gal that would have enjoyed at least ten more minutes of Veruca Salt in Charlie & the Chocolate Factory and can’t wait for X-Men 3 just to see the return of Mystique.
Industries such as Playboy and The Price is Right may have built their audience by selling their women as the sweet, girl-next-door types, but I’ll take the bitch in the back of the room drinking a Vodka Tonic any day. The girl next door might turn into the picture perfect wife who will have your dinner waiting when you get home from work, but she’ll never hurl the plate at your head and tell you to order Chinese take-out. Miss Perfect will never be the life of the party after drinking too much, nor give you the level of excited passion that her more dysfunctional, possibly institutionalized, sister is capable of.
Maybe the toxic vixen is what I secretly aspire to be, but for now I’ll thank my lucky stars that I’m not a man and wait with baited breath for that Joan Collins movie marathon on the Lifetime Network.
Whether it’s Rebecca from Passions or Karen from Will & Grace, if there’s a dysfunctional, addicted, shallow bitch within 100 miles, I want to be front and center for all of her pithy comments and wicked plots. I think I’ve always been attracted to the wrong kind of woman. It started at a young age with a Scarlett O’Hara obsession and took off from there. As a six year old, my mother let me watch Gone with the Wind for the first time in hopes that I would want to emulate the character that shared my namesake; instead I hung on every catty word uttered by the gorgeous Scarlett. She had style, she had balls, and she had a man who was so into her. Even when Rhett walked out at the end of the film, I knew deep down in my heart that he would be back for more, because these mentally and verbally abusive chicks are passionate and exciting. Sure, they might need an entire drum of Prozac to keep from going off the deep end, but it’s never a dull moment with these dolls.
My love of the wrong woman continued as I got deeper into the world of elementary school. I was the girl who wanted to be the Wicked Witch of the West for Halloween, and secretly knew I was going to grow up to be Alexis Carrington after watching just a few episodes of Dynasty. I developed something of a Joan Collins fetish at age 11 when I snuck out of bed at 2:00 AM shortly after we got cable television and watched The Bitch.
Fortunately, by the time I reached junior high, my penchant for toxic ladies managed to net me friends who were complete headcases. I was the quiet listener, while my friends were anorexic, backstabbing, two-faced bitches who taught me valuable skills like how to lie, sneak out of the house, and cry on queue. It was all about them all of the time, and they would regularly cut our relationship off at will, only to phone me weeks later with a sappy, superficial apology that I would inevitably accept.
Oddly enough, my relationships with men haven’t been as dramatic. I have had quite a cache of normal boyfriends, dates, and lovers. My husband is a straight-laced, kind fellow with honor and ethics, so at this point I’m guessing that my saving grace from a lifetime of misery is entirely due to the fact that I’m a woman and not a man. If I was a man, I would, without a doubt, be paying alimony to some drunken ex-wife with more baggage than my brother-in-law on a two week vacation. I would endure endless late night phone calls filled with liquor, tears, and a slew of curse words. The sex might be fantastic, but the mind games that followed would be absolute hell.
By the time I left art school, I managed to rid my real world of toxic females and relegated my love of dangerous dysfunctional gals to the big and small screens. I love watching wicked women weave wonderful webs of wanton wreckage. I revel in their abilities to effectively destroy those around them knowing that those same masochists will be back for more. I watch Karen from Will & Grace insult and abuse the people around her and I’m fascinated by her drunken wit and cruel charm. I rarely miss an episode of Passions, because I want to see what the fabulous and spoiled Rebecca will do next. She’s a gal that likes to have fun, loves to have sex (particularly with younger men), and will do anything to keep her power and social status. Aside from my two television standbys, I am also the wacky gal that would have enjoyed at least ten more minutes of Veruca Salt in Charlie & the Chocolate Factory and can’t wait for X-Men 3 just to see the return of Mystique.
Industries such as Playboy and The Price is Right may have built their audience by selling their women as the sweet, girl-next-door types, but I’ll take the bitch in the back of the room drinking a Vodka Tonic any day. The girl next door might turn into the picture perfect wife who will have your dinner waiting when you get home from work, but she’ll never hurl the plate at your head and tell you to order Chinese take-out. Miss Perfect will never be the life of the party after drinking too much, nor give you the level of excited passion that her more dysfunctional, possibly institutionalized, sister is capable of.
Maybe the toxic vixen is what I secretly aspire to be, but for now I’ll thank my lucky stars that I’m not a man and wait with baited breath for that Joan Collins movie marathon on the Lifetime Network.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Rejuvenation
Last weekend I cashed in my Mother’s Day gift certificates, and went for a four hour spa treatment that included a facial, 60-minute massage, and a stint in a portable steam room. It was a place on the Eastside, which was very nice. I left feeling relaxed and refreshed, but not rejuvenated. This past weekend, we joined my husband’s family for a three day cruise to celebrate his stepfather’s 70th birthday. On the Royal Caribbean ship we enjoyed the pool, the casino, a small, but comfortable cabin, and the feeling of being carefree. I left feeling happy, but not rejuvenated.
Rejuvenation for me came last night when I ditched my suburb for a smoky club near Safeco Field and gathered with a bunch of other fans for, what has promised to be, the last Danzig tour. Since he doesn’t have kids to put through college or rehab, I believe he will actually be retiring, so I wasn’t about to miss this show. The added treat was that he reunited with his former Misfits guitarist, Doyle, to do a set of Misfits songs. For those of you who have no idea what the hell I’m talking about, Glenn Danzig formed the horror punk band, Misfits, back in the early ‘70s, around the year I was born. They broke up when I was in elementary school, and he went on to do a hardcore band called Samhain, then a band which he named after himself, simply called Danzig. Most of the people in the club, including yours truly, have only heard the Misfits via recording, so the fact that we were going to hear actual live Misfits songs performed by the original guy who wrote and sang them was mind-blowing.
The only catch was that I was skipping a second night of Rosh Hashanah services and the second night Seder to be at this show. Oh well, I guess I lose my bagel-eating privileges for the next three months. I also have to endure the endless teasing from my husband, who despite defining himself as “culturally Jewish,” is happy to have something to throw in my face. Take notes, girls, this is what you have to look forward to after you say, “I do.”
I knew it was going to be a good evening when I managed to find a free parking space less than a block away from the club. I walked into a large room with an exposed beam ceiling and brick façade walls draped with decorative red, velvet curtains. After retrieving a drink from the bar, I searched for a place where I would be able to avoid the over-active, young males who would inevitably form a mosh pit, and where I could get a decent view of the stage. I’ve always been in favor of a 5’2” and under section at concerts, because some tall bastard always ends up blocking my view. Fortunately, this didn’t happen to me last night, maybe because I looked like most of these kids’ high school teacher.
All night I was asked two questions by random strangers: ‘Are you with the band?’ and ‘What time is it?’ I was obviously dressed more conservative, though stylish, than the rest of the crowd, and maybe they figured with age comes a reliable watch. In a room that was stifling with cigarette smoke and sweat filled with mostly young people dressed in Misfits t-shirts and sporting devil locks, I did find a surprising amount of politeness. I was twice offered cigarettes, once offered a bottle of water, and some other punked out young man brandished a handful of colorful pills inviting me to sample at will. I politely declined all offerings, but appreciated being included.
The show began a little rocky, as Glenn’s vocal mic kept fritzing out. After unleashing a tirade of swear words at the sound guy, it got fixed and the show went on. The Misfits set was fantastic, and the mixture of Danzig songs was a perfect send off. I stood against the wall near a devil locked guy who clocked in at a minimum of 400 lbs. wearing bad eyeliner and a 3 XL Misfits shirt. He was friendly and kept trying to make small talk. As did the young girls on the other side of me who were excited about the “after show” wristbands they had been given by one of the roadies. Having worked in concerts for many years, I didn’t have the heart to tell them that in most cases, the so-called “after show” parties were less for the guys on stage and more for the road crew.
After one last Diet Coke in the bar, I left the club feeling slightly bewildered. How was it possible that I could live in Suburbia, be a conservative Jew, a devoted wife and mother, yet the only thing that makes me feel rejuvenated is a hardcore music show in a seedy, downtown club. I was once told by a wise and fabulous woman, who also happens to own the company that produced the Danzig show that you have to “live your truth.” I don’t feel like some hypocrite who dwells in the seemingly perfect world of Suburbia then rocks out to horror punk downtown, because it’s all me. I am the concertgoer as well as the Suburb mom. I don’t necessarily understand it, but I wouldn’t give up either thing. Much like the body of Glenn Danzig’s work, my life has many aspects, but at least I can go to sleep at night knowing that, pretenses aside, it’s all me.
Rejuvenation for me came last night when I ditched my suburb for a smoky club near Safeco Field and gathered with a bunch of other fans for, what has promised to be, the last Danzig tour. Since he doesn’t have kids to put through college or rehab, I believe he will actually be retiring, so I wasn’t about to miss this show. The added treat was that he reunited with his former Misfits guitarist, Doyle, to do a set of Misfits songs. For those of you who have no idea what the hell I’m talking about, Glenn Danzig formed the horror punk band, Misfits, back in the early ‘70s, around the year I was born. They broke up when I was in elementary school, and he went on to do a hardcore band called Samhain, then a band which he named after himself, simply called Danzig. Most of the people in the club, including yours truly, have only heard the Misfits via recording, so the fact that we were going to hear actual live Misfits songs performed by the original guy who wrote and sang them was mind-blowing.
The only catch was that I was skipping a second night of Rosh Hashanah services and the second night Seder to be at this show. Oh well, I guess I lose my bagel-eating privileges for the next three months. I also have to endure the endless teasing from my husband, who despite defining himself as “culturally Jewish,” is happy to have something to throw in my face. Take notes, girls, this is what you have to look forward to after you say, “I do.”
I knew it was going to be a good evening when I managed to find a free parking space less than a block away from the club. I walked into a large room with an exposed beam ceiling and brick façade walls draped with decorative red, velvet curtains. After retrieving a drink from the bar, I searched for a place where I would be able to avoid the over-active, young males who would inevitably form a mosh pit, and where I could get a decent view of the stage. I’ve always been in favor of a 5’2” and under section at concerts, because some tall bastard always ends up blocking my view. Fortunately, this didn’t happen to me last night, maybe because I looked like most of these kids’ high school teacher.
All night I was asked two questions by random strangers: ‘Are you with the band?’ and ‘What time is it?’ I was obviously dressed more conservative, though stylish, than the rest of the crowd, and maybe they figured with age comes a reliable watch. In a room that was stifling with cigarette smoke and sweat filled with mostly young people dressed in Misfits t-shirts and sporting devil locks, I did find a surprising amount of politeness. I was twice offered cigarettes, once offered a bottle of water, and some other punked out young man brandished a handful of colorful pills inviting me to sample at will. I politely declined all offerings, but appreciated being included.
The show began a little rocky, as Glenn’s vocal mic kept fritzing out. After unleashing a tirade of swear words at the sound guy, it got fixed and the show went on. The Misfits set was fantastic, and the mixture of Danzig songs was a perfect send off. I stood against the wall near a devil locked guy who clocked in at a minimum of 400 lbs. wearing bad eyeliner and a 3 XL Misfits shirt. He was friendly and kept trying to make small talk. As did the young girls on the other side of me who were excited about the “after show” wristbands they had been given by one of the roadies. Having worked in concerts for many years, I didn’t have the heart to tell them that in most cases, the so-called “after show” parties were less for the guys on stage and more for the road crew.
After one last Diet Coke in the bar, I left the club feeling slightly bewildered. How was it possible that I could live in Suburbia, be a conservative Jew, a devoted wife and mother, yet the only thing that makes me feel rejuvenated is a hardcore music show in a seedy, downtown club. I was once told by a wise and fabulous woman, who also happens to own the company that produced the Danzig show that you have to “live your truth.” I don’t feel like some hypocrite who dwells in the seemingly perfect world of Suburbia then rocks out to horror punk downtown, because it’s all me. I am the concertgoer as well as the Suburb mom. I don’t necessarily understand it, but I wouldn’t give up either thing. Much like the body of Glenn Danzig’s work, my life has many aspects, but at least I can go to sleep at night knowing that, pretenses aside, it’s all me.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
How to Cheat at Your Weigh-In
When I finally got a look at some video footage Jeff took of me walking on the beach in my bathing suit this past June, I was stricken with horror at my appearance. Just a mere five years previous, I was hot. I had a flat tummy, round butt, and could wear an outfit like nobody’s business. Of course in the meantime, I had a baby, and all of the mommas and some of the daddies out there know that once you have a baby, your body will never be the same again. After all, if you blow up a balloon, even for just a few minutes, then deflate it; it won’t be that tight, little piece of rubber no matter how much firming lotion you put on after showering. This was true of my ass and tummy after I carried Rachael.
For the first year after her birth, I had a weird delusion that all of the weight would magically fall off my body. I guess it was along the same lines as the delusion that little gnomes would come clean my house, while Bigfoot took care of my yard, and leprechauns did the grocery shopping. By the time my Mexican vacation came around in June 2005, I had been on a very low carb diet for three months and working out twice a day. Unfortunately, I had gained and lost the same three pounds. Oddly enough, I was under the belief that I looked good, and that my weight hadn’t gotten the best of me, until I saw the video recap of our vacation.
I have no idea how to work the digital video editing software, but I managed to figure out enough to delete those three frames of my beach walk forever. Then immediately after, I went to the Weight Watchers website and found a meeting. I had been on Weight Watchers years ago with great success. After losing an insane amount of weight on the program, like a psycho off their meds, I believed I was cured and decided I no longer needed the weigh-ins or meetings. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Half the weight I lost slowly came back a couple of pounds here and a few pounds there. Then I got pregnant, and the gloves really came off.
Thankfully, I’ve been on the program since June and I’m starting to look like myself again. I have discovered a few interesting things about doing the program now as opposed to five years ago. The beloved folks at Weight Watchers have modified the program to make it easier to do, which is a big plus. A small minus would be that I’m not losing weight as quickly as I did when I was on program at the beginning of the millennium. This is an excellent way for me to realize that it only gets harder as you get older, so I’d better not blow up like an inflatable raft again. I have also figured out how to cheat at my weigh-in.
I love the Thursday evening meetings, but I don’t do as well weighing in in the evening as opposed to the morning. During the day on Thursday, I either have to keep my stomach relatively empty, which depending on how crazy my day is, could be a challenge. If I’m not able to deplete myself of food until 6:15 PM, then I have to try a gamble and drink as much coffee as possible. Since coffee is a diuretic, it will cleanse your system of extra water and food if you can manage to drink enough of it early in the day. I tried this today, but it didn’t work. Now it’s 6:27 PM and I’m bloated like a puffer fish. Weighing in tonight is out of the question, because I would rather pay the extra $12 next week than have a gain.
Usually when I don’t make the Thursday evening meeting, which is often, I go first thing in the morning on Friday or Saturday. Unfortunately, this weekend we are going out of town, so that isn’t an option. Rachael will go along with me in the mornings and insist on standing on the scale until the lady tells her what her weight is. She will then dance around the reception area joyously. I wish I could share her same delight when I have my usual pound and a half loss, but I still have a ways to go until I hit goal.
Since I haven’t been to a Thursday evening meeting in two months, I will most likely change my weigh-in day to Saturday morning. My hair might be messier, my light-weight sweats might look schleppy, but at least I won’t have to try to gamble on my caffeine cheat in order to avoid a bad weigh-in. Despite knowing in the grand scheme of things that if the loss doesn’t appear this week, it will show up next week, like a junkie, I need the fix. I need to know that I’m one step closer to looking similar to the woman I was when I met my husband. The woman who looked good in a business suit, the woman who looked hot in the sexy red lingerie, the woman who still could look in the mirror and see most of her physical flaws, but managed to smile anyways, and mostly the woman who looks nothing like that marshmallow in a blue bathing suit walking on the beach in Mexico.
For the first year after her birth, I had a weird delusion that all of the weight would magically fall off my body. I guess it was along the same lines as the delusion that little gnomes would come clean my house, while Bigfoot took care of my yard, and leprechauns did the grocery shopping. By the time my Mexican vacation came around in June 2005, I had been on a very low carb diet for three months and working out twice a day. Unfortunately, I had gained and lost the same three pounds. Oddly enough, I was under the belief that I looked good, and that my weight hadn’t gotten the best of me, until I saw the video recap of our vacation.
I have no idea how to work the digital video editing software, but I managed to figure out enough to delete those three frames of my beach walk forever. Then immediately after, I went to the Weight Watchers website and found a meeting. I had been on Weight Watchers years ago with great success. After losing an insane amount of weight on the program, like a psycho off their meds, I believed I was cured and decided I no longer needed the weigh-ins or meetings. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Half the weight I lost slowly came back a couple of pounds here and a few pounds there. Then I got pregnant, and the gloves really came off.
Thankfully, I’ve been on the program since June and I’m starting to look like myself again. I have discovered a few interesting things about doing the program now as opposed to five years ago. The beloved folks at Weight Watchers have modified the program to make it easier to do, which is a big plus. A small minus would be that I’m not losing weight as quickly as I did when I was on program at the beginning of the millennium. This is an excellent way for me to realize that it only gets harder as you get older, so I’d better not blow up like an inflatable raft again. I have also figured out how to cheat at my weigh-in.
I love the Thursday evening meetings, but I don’t do as well weighing in in the evening as opposed to the morning. During the day on Thursday, I either have to keep my stomach relatively empty, which depending on how crazy my day is, could be a challenge. If I’m not able to deplete myself of food until 6:15 PM, then I have to try a gamble and drink as much coffee as possible. Since coffee is a diuretic, it will cleanse your system of extra water and food if you can manage to drink enough of it early in the day. I tried this today, but it didn’t work. Now it’s 6:27 PM and I’m bloated like a puffer fish. Weighing in tonight is out of the question, because I would rather pay the extra $12 next week than have a gain.
Usually when I don’t make the Thursday evening meeting, which is often, I go first thing in the morning on Friday or Saturday. Unfortunately, this weekend we are going out of town, so that isn’t an option. Rachael will go along with me in the mornings and insist on standing on the scale until the lady tells her what her weight is. She will then dance around the reception area joyously. I wish I could share her same delight when I have my usual pound and a half loss, but I still have a ways to go until I hit goal.
Since I haven’t been to a Thursday evening meeting in two months, I will most likely change my weigh-in day to Saturday morning. My hair might be messier, my light-weight sweats might look schleppy, but at least I won’t have to try to gamble on my caffeine cheat in order to avoid a bad weigh-in. Despite knowing in the grand scheme of things that if the loss doesn’t appear this week, it will show up next week, like a junkie, I need the fix. I need to know that I’m one step closer to looking similar to the woman I was when I met my husband. The woman who looked good in a business suit, the woman who looked hot in the sexy red lingerie, the woman who still could look in the mirror and see most of her physical flaws, but managed to smile anyways, and mostly the woman who looks nothing like that marshmallow in a blue bathing suit walking on the beach in Mexico.
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