Sometimes I wonder how I get myself into these ridiculous situations. On this most recent trip to Idaho, I decided to appoint myself Family Records Keeper, and embark on a colossal and somewhat asinine project. I brought all of the old family photo albums back home with me telling everyone that I would transform myself into Super Scrapbook Woman and re-do the albums complete with commentary about the photos. I will now go into the corner and put the “Fucking Idiot” sign around my neck.
Just thumbing through them in a quick once over I can tell this project is going to be maddening and life consuming, and I don’t know if I’m the right person to take it on. I am only ¾ of the way finished with my wedding album, and half way finished with Rachael’s baby book. I told myself when Rachael was born that I would keep a journal of daily activities that we did together when she was young, and that lasted a whole three weeks. Thank G-d for digital cameras or we would have an enormous crate of little, black, plastic tubes containing undeveloped film documenting the first couple of years of her life.
Why put myself through this? Because, sadly enough, I am the last person left with a memory of what these photos are about and who is in them. There are the easy ones with my sister, brother, me and various members of my immediate family, but there are a bunch of hard ones with faces that I vaguely have names to match them to. I remember a lot of the backgrounds and circumstances under which most of these photos were taken, because I used to look through these albums regularly when my mother was alive and would always ask her to explain them. She would get annoyed, but would do it anyway, probably to ensure that I would memorize her spin on our past as she wanted it remembered as opposed to how it really happened.
Aside from the commentary, I have to get new albums in general. Most of the photos are housed in those awful albums that had the flypaper-like adhesive on white cardstock with the plastic film that supposedly protected the pictures. No matter how careful you were or how many times you tried, you could never get the air bubbles out of that plastic! Who knew that 25 years later, the adhesive would turn a gross shade of puke yellow and refuse to hold the photos in place, while that flimsy piece of plastic would just hang out of the album or go missing completely. Not only do I have to figure out a way to get the photos that still stick to the cardstock unstuck in order to place them on kinder, gentler preservation paper, but I have to play detective and figure out what loose photos go with what album.
To keep me on my toes, I also schlepped home a small bag of loose photos, some of which are very old. One has a picture of my grandmother with her family members. My Grammy is in her 30s, and has all of the family members listed on the back of the photo; she just didn’t bother to say who was who. If there is one plea I can make to anyone reading it is: label your pictures in detail! Some day you will be old and your memory will be gone, and your confused kids will have to try and figure out which one of the old guys is Uncle Harry, and if one of them is Uncle Harry, who the hell is the other old guy.
Going through old pictures can also bring up some uncomfortable memories, like the ones I found from my first wedding. I don’t mind the posed ones of me standing next to my ex and the wedding party, but there was one of me and the ex kissing, and considering that he liked to go both ways (a fact which was revealed to me after we had been married awhile), I found the kissing picture to be a little yucky. There were a few pictures of me with old boyfriends, but I don’t mind those ones so much, although I do wonder what the hell attracted me to those guys in the first place.
I’m sure throughout the duration of this project I will have a lot of emotions that play out especially given the fact that I don’t really know if the past my mother dictated to me was the past as it actually happened. Maybe the commentary I end up writing will just be more of her fiction, then again, perhaps I will figure out more about who I am. Either way, I have promised my brother, sister, and stepdad each fresh albums with copies of all the pictures and commentary documenting when the photos were taken and the circumstance surrounding them. Hopefully, unlike Rachael’s baby book, this album project will be done in a timelier manner.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Many Hearts, One Family
About once or twice a year, as obligation sees fit, I end up at a family function in Idaho. I try to keep my stays there as short as humanly possible. I know for a lot of people, Idaho is the best place in the world to live, but I look at it as a place where I did my mandatory sentence, and return only when necessary. This weekend was one of those necessary trips, because my stepdad met a special lady and decided to get married.
Pop quiz for those folks out there from “non-traditional” families, what the hell do you call a stepparent’s spouse? Is she my step-stepmother? Some snotty, rich kid who resides in the Los Angeles suburbs has to know the answer to this, as well as the costs for various plastic surgery procedures. Anyways, my stepdad couldn’t have done better, because this lady is a gem. Prior to the wedding I had talked to her on the phone once, so why the high opinion? I was blessed with my maternal grandfather’s gift of accurately reading people within the first five seconds of talking to them. I am rarely ever wrong, and in cases where I am, it is usually with someone I happened to be dating, so thankfully, I don’t run into that anymore.
My step-stepmother and my stepdad hit it off right away over a series of interesting coincidences: they both were widowed by spouses who died of brain tumors, they both have adult sons who are mentally disabled, they both have many friends in common, yet had never remembered meeting each other in the past, and they both have four kids. Basically, they were perfect for each other, and I could tell from various conversations that my stepdad wanted me at his wedding.
Jeff, Rachael and I did the big roadtrip thanks to disgusting airfares, and ended up checking into the hotel with just enough time to get dressed in our fancy wedding attire and head to the church. By the way, my stepdad, his family, my step-stepmother and her family are all good Christians, so there was no dancing the Horah that night. Within ten minutes, I met my step-stepmother and my three new stepsisters, two of which are twins and thankfully, not identical. By the end of Friday night, I had a completely new family.
I say this quite casually, because I’ve always taken things in stride, and I’ve been in enough ultra-weird situations that it just seems to be the way my life goes. In fact, I start getting bored and worried if it seems like too much time has elapsed between bizarre experiences. My younger brother, the one with the traumatic brain injury, didn’t take it so easy. He loves his new stepmom, but he couldn’t stop thinking of our mom who had passed just a couple of years prior. I kept my arm around him the whole time, and by the end of the evening, he was okay with everything.
I thought about my mother a couple of times that night, but not in a sorrow-filled way. She was kind of a jealous, control freak, so I couldn’t help smiling every time I thought about how she would have absolutely lost it at the thought of her beloved husband sharing company with someone else. I could just see my mother screaming at us calling us all traitors, because we accept this new person, let alone get along with her and welcome her with open arms. I know that sounds really bad, but if you knew my mom, it’s pretty damn accurate.
Oddly enough, it was my mother that taught me that blood doesn’t make a family. She dragged me and my siblings away from our blood relatives at an early age and kept us from them purposefully, while at the same time teaching us that you make your own family from those non-relatives who end up playing an enormous role in your life. I would later find out that making your own family is a very punk way of doing things, since I have yet to meet a punk who has confined themselves strictly to their blood relatives. Most will tell you about a brother, sister, uncle, parent, etc. who is a major force in their life, but there isn’t one drop of common blood between them.
At this point, I’m excited at the prospect of having a new family, because I already know everything about my existing family members, so having new ones to probe with uncomfortable questions they have to answer, because we are family now will be interesting. My step-stepmom is a lovely lady, her oldest daughter was a little stand-offish, but from what I’m told she was very close with her father, who passed away right before she went off to college, so the wedding had to be difficult for her. The twins are sophomores in college, and although we didn’t get a chance to talk much, I think it will be fun getting to know them. As for me, I’ve got my Rachael, the ultimate ice-breaker, and we will need her, because Thanksgiving is coming up soon, and this year, it’s going to be a big one!
Pop quiz for those folks out there from “non-traditional” families, what the hell do you call a stepparent’s spouse? Is she my step-stepmother? Some snotty, rich kid who resides in the Los Angeles suburbs has to know the answer to this, as well as the costs for various plastic surgery procedures. Anyways, my stepdad couldn’t have done better, because this lady is a gem. Prior to the wedding I had talked to her on the phone once, so why the high opinion? I was blessed with my maternal grandfather’s gift of accurately reading people within the first five seconds of talking to them. I am rarely ever wrong, and in cases where I am, it is usually with someone I happened to be dating, so thankfully, I don’t run into that anymore.
My step-stepmother and my stepdad hit it off right away over a series of interesting coincidences: they both were widowed by spouses who died of brain tumors, they both have adult sons who are mentally disabled, they both have many friends in common, yet had never remembered meeting each other in the past, and they both have four kids. Basically, they were perfect for each other, and I could tell from various conversations that my stepdad wanted me at his wedding.
Jeff, Rachael and I did the big roadtrip thanks to disgusting airfares, and ended up checking into the hotel with just enough time to get dressed in our fancy wedding attire and head to the church. By the way, my stepdad, his family, my step-stepmother and her family are all good Christians, so there was no dancing the Horah that night. Within ten minutes, I met my step-stepmother and my three new stepsisters, two of which are twins and thankfully, not identical. By the end of Friday night, I had a completely new family.
I say this quite casually, because I’ve always taken things in stride, and I’ve been in enough ultra-weird situations that it just seems to be the way my life goes. In fact, I start getting bored and worried if it seems like too much time has elapsed between bizarre experiences. My younger brother, the one with the traumatic brain injury, didn’t take it so easy. He loves his new stepmom, but he couldn’t stop thinking of our mom who had passed just a couple of years prior. I kept my arm around him the whole time, and by the end of the evening, he was okay with everything.
I thought about my mother a couple of times that night, but not in a sorrow-filled way. She was kind of a jealous, control freak, so I couldn’t help smiling every time I thought about how she would have absolutely lost it at the thought of her beloved husband sharing company with someone else. I could just see my mother screaming at us calling us all traitors, because we accept this new person, let alone get along with her and welcome her with open arms. I know that sounds really bad, but if you knew my mom, it’s pretty damn accurate.
Oddly enough, it was my mother that taught me that blood doesn’t make a family. She dragged me and my siblings away from our blood relatives at an early age and kept us from them purposefully, while at the same time teaching us that you make your own family from those non-relatives who end up playing an enormous role in your life. I would later find out that making your own family is a very punk way of doing things, since I have yet to meet a punk who has confined themselves strictly to their blood relatives. Most will tell you about a brother, sister, uncle, parent, etc. who is a major force in their life, but there isn’t one drop of common blood between them.
At this point, I’m excited at the prospect of having a new family, because I already know everything about my existing family members, so having new ones to probe with uncomfortable questions they have to answer, because we are family now will be interesting. My step-stepmom is a lovely lady, her oldest daughter was a little stand-offish, but from what I’m told she was very close with her father, who passed away right before she went off to college, so the wedding had to be difficult for her. The twins are sophomores in college, and although we didn’t get a chance to talk much, I think it will be fun getting to know them. As for me, I’ve got my Rachael, the ultimate ice-breaker, and we will need her, because Thanksgiving is coming up soon, and this year, it’s going to be a big one!
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Can't Spy on Me Damn It!
The best stories are the ones that end with the lone renegade standing up to an unjust system. The hero, or anti-hero, stands in the face of opposition with nothing left to lose, death is the worst that could happen to them and they don’t fear it anymore, they let the ax fall and when the dust settles, the world is a better place.
This scenario happened Thursday when an accomplished judge named Anna told the Bush Regime that they could no longer wiretap residents of the U.S. without a warrant. The Bush Regime hand-in-hand with the National Security Agency has been doing wiretaps into phone lines, computers, cell phones, and G-d knows what else to gather, what they call, “anti-terrorism” intelligence. As a scholar of George Orwell, I’m calling bullshit on their line about using spying to make us safer, as nothing more than one of the three party slogans from 1984, “Freedom is Slavery.”
The funny thing about this situation is the lone renegade, the aforementioned low key judge named Anna. What the Regime knew about her was that she was a mild mannered lady who had done several important rulings in instances where it was corporations vs. people. They probably knew that she ruled in favor of the people nearly every time, and I’m sure they knew of her high profile activities during the Civil Rights Movement, but I guess our favorite Regime assumed that Judge Anna softened in her maturing age…wrong. She gave a very broad definition citing the First and Fourth Amendments of the Constitution protecting speech and privacy and in her 43-page opinion gave George W. a legal bitchslap by letting him know he overstepped his bounds.
Of course those neocon fucks are going to appeal to the Supreme Court, which they’ve lined with their lap dogs, so the Orwellian spy contingent might end up back in business before the end of next year. Unless we all head to the polls in November and clean house, then maybe we can begin to talk impeachment again.
Speaking of impeachment, and getting back to the renegades, isn’t it ironic that the Regime assumed that Judge Anna would fold, the same way they assumed Ken Starr would get Susan McDougal to lie about the Clintons’ involvement in Whitewater back in the 1990s. It was nearly the same scenario, they had a Southern socialite who appeared to be someone that they could bully, but what they didn’t know was that Susan was Jewish and her mom was a Holocaust survivor. Susan spent so much time in prison, because she refused to play the neocon game and lie no matter what they tried to do to break her. When asked why she wouldn’t just tell Ken Starr what he wanted to hear, she said that her mother told her flat out, “I stood up to Hitler, and you can stand up to them.”
Not only do these assholes need to do better research when it comes to people they assume they can push around; they need to also stop arriving at the assumption that women are an easier mark than men when it comes to bully tactics. Women give birth to nations and are far more influential in instilling values and attitudes in children even if there are fathers in the picture. Go into nearly any household and ask everyone who runs the place, and they will usually point to mom. The whole “behind every man is a great woman” saying isn’t bullshit, and time and time again throughout history, women have proven themselves to be far stronger opponents. Yet, these neocons see women as they want to see them; little suburban housewives who consult their husbands on every little decision and take a job in order to keep from getting bored. They see aspects of women’s lives such as career, finances, and relationship status as disposable, and refuse to see women as they actually are.
Maybe this is a good thing. If the neocon right wingers don’t see women as a threat, then they won’t expect us to stand up to them, which means we can take them by surprise. While they are off wiretapping every Muslim, citizen or Visa holder, as well as all of their corporate competitors (c’mon you know all of Halliburton’s competition is hearing taps in their phones right now), us ladies can begin emailing each other and making plans for takeover in 2008. What do you say grrrls, we can be renegades, too, and they’ll never see us coming!
This scenario happened Thursday when an accomplished judge named Anna told the Bush Regime that they could no longer wiretap residents of the U.S. without a warrant. The Bush Regime hand-in-hand with the National Security Agency has been doing wiretaps into phone lines, computers, cell phones, and G-d knows what else to gather, what they call, “anti-terrorism” intelligence. As a scholar of George Orwell, I’m calling bullshit on their line about using spying to make us safer, as nothing more than one of the three party slogans from 1984, “Freedom is Slavery.”
The funny thing about this situation is the lone renegade, the aforementioned low key judge named Anna. What the Regime knew about her was that she was a mild mannered lady who had done several important rulings in instances where it was corporations vs. people. They probably knew that she ruled in favor of the people nearly every time, and I’m sure they knew of her high profile activities during the Civil Rights Movement, but I guess our favorite Regime assumed that Judge Anna softened in her maturing age…wrong. She gave a very broad definition citing the First and Fourth Amendments of the Constitution protecting speech and privacy and in her 43-page opinion gave George W. a legal bitchslap by letting him know he overstepped his bounds.
Of course those neocon fucks are going to appeal to the Supreme Court, which they’ve lined with their lap dogs, so the Orwellian spy contingent might end up back in business before the end of next year. Unless we all head to the polls in November and clean house, then maybe we can begin to talk impeachment again.
Speaking of impeachment, and getting back to the renegades, isn’t it ironic that the Regime assumed that Judge Anna would fold, the same way they assumed Ken Starr would get Susan McDougal to lie about the Clintons’ involvement in Whitewater back in the 1990s. It was nearly the same scenario, they had a Southern socialite who appeared to be someone that they could bully, but what they didn’t know was that Susan was Jewish and her mom was a Holocaust survivor. Susan spent so much time in prison, because she refused to play the neocon game and lie no matter what they tried to do to break her. When asked why she wouldn’t just tell Ken Starr what he wanted to hear, she said that her mother told her flat out, “I stood up to Hitler, and you can stand up to them.”
Not only do these assholes need to do better research when it comes to people they assume they can push around; they need to also stop arriving at the assumption that women are an easier mark than men when it comes to bully tactics. Women give birth to nations and are far more influential in instilling values and attitudes in children even if there are fathers in the picture. Go into nearly any household and ask everyone who runs the place, and they will usually point to mom. The whole “behind every man is a great woman” saying isn’t bullshit, and time and time again throughout history, women have proven themselves to be far stronger opponents. Yet, these neocons see women as they want to see them; little suburban housewives who consult their husbands on every little decision and take a job in order to keep from getting bored. They see aspects of women’s lives such as career, finances, and relationship status as disposable, and refuse to see women as they actually are.
Maybe this is a good thing. If the neocon right wingers don’t see women as a threat, then they won’t expect us to stand up to them, which means we can take them by surprise. While they are off wiretapping every Muslim, citizen or Visa holder, as well as all of their corporate competitors (c’mon you know all of Halliburton’s competition is hearing taps in their phones right now), us ladies can begin emailing each other and making plans for takeover in 2008. What do you say grrrls, we can be renegades, too, and they’ll never see us coming!
Sunday, August 20, 2006
The Goal of Being Rich & Vacuous
Jeff and I decided to take Rachael to see the new “family” film, Barnyard at her request. She saw the commercials for the funny cows and wanted to see them, so despite our suspicions that she would run around bored in the theater, play musical chairs and demand way too much popcorn, because the movie plot would be a little over her head, we took her anyways.
It was during the previews that I happened upon the culmination of a disturbing trend that has been targeting young, American women for the past few years. Hilary Duff and her sister are starring in a movie called Material Girls where they play young, rich, vacuous women who own a family cosmetics business that suddenly finds itself in bankruptcy. Of course, the entire plot of the film was revealed in the preview, which makes me wonder why anyone in their right mind would pay to see it, but this film is targeting ‘tweens, and they’ve made Miss Hilary a buttload of money, so her new flick is probably safe. Anyways, they save their company in the end by stepping up and running a business, but the synopsis of the film appears to be that a young girl should want nothing more than to be a hapless fashion addict who spends their day obsessed with celebrities and spouting off useless conversation with other vacuous fashion addicts. Oh, they also have to be rich. They don’t tell girls how they are to come into this money, but they should have a lot of it.
With the rise in popularity of Paris Hilton, Nicole Ritchie, Prince William, Kimberly Stewart and other young and rich kids, it seems that popular culture is cool with selling young men and mainly young women the idea that the perfect lifestyle includes expensive clothing, cars, parties, pampering, and optional plastic surgery. In this world of money, young people are told that they should also have only one long-term goal: to be famous for being rich and attractive. The only problem with this pop culture future is that they don’t bother to tell kids ways to go about making the money or achieving fame. They also don’t happen to mention the real cost of designer fashions and accessories, or what happens when the credit card bills come in the mail.
This kind of trend has existed before in American society around the turn of the previous century when the lifestyles of the Rockerfellers and Vanderbilts were splashed all over mainstream newspapers. However, their lives were portrayed more as fantasies that were completely unreachable by working class people, whereas today’s batch of young, wealthy celebrities are seen as contemporaries. Reality television and constant media attention gives regular kids the idea that if Paris was hanging out at Starbucks, they might actually have a chance to sip lattes with her. Those of us who are older and wiser see a far different scenario, where Paris’ ultra-buffed bodyguards clear the entire Starbucks out before Miss Hilton enters. Then they order her coffee drink for her and stand in close proximity as she text messages her latest Greek fling. The closest an average person will ever get to Paris Hilton is maybe two yards, if they happen to wait overnight at a premier and get a good, front seat spot at the velvet rope. As for conversation, I don’t think so, unless of course you are waiting on the table at the nouveaux cuisine restaurant she hits while shopping on Rodeo Drive.
My point is that there is a strong disconnect taking place between fantasy and reality that has never existed prior to this generation, and my concern is for the future of these kids who think that the only thing in life that makes you successful is the ability to consume high-priced goods and achieve fame. What happens when these young people, particularly girls, find themselves declaring bankruptcy at 21 years old, because they have tried to keep up with their so-called “contemporary’s” lifestyle? How is that young dude going to feel when he hits 23 and hasn’t been the star of a reality TV show, and doesn’t have paparazzi following his every move?
Thankfully, I’m a parent and I can give my child a better perspective on things. I’ll tell Rachael that achieving wealth and success is possible, but it takes a tremendous amount of hard work. I’ll also tell her that fame and money isn’t everything and that she should take the words of the Dali Lama into consideration by telling her to judge her success by what she has “to give up in order to get it.”
As for the rest of the upcoming generation, let’s hope that the government develops a stronger college student loan program, so that when fame and fortune don’t magically hit them by the time they are 22, they can get educated and make an honest contribution to society. Maybe we will all luck out and once they enter college they will develop a healthy distain for the bourgeoisie lifestyle, and finally the glorious day will come when we don’t have to see anymore previews for stupid Hilary Duff films while waiting for our animated family flick.
It was during the previews that I happened upon the culmination of a disturbing trend that has been targeting young, American women for the past few years. Hilary Duff and her sister are starring in a movie called Material Girls where they play young, rich, vacuous women who own a family cosmetics business that suddenly finds itself in bankruptcy. Of course, the entire plot of the film was revealed in the preview, which makes me wonder why anyone in their right mind would pay to see it, but this film is targeting ‘tweens, and they’ve made Miss Hilary a buttload of money, so her new flick is probably safe. Anyways, they save their company in the end by stepping up and running a business, but the synopsis of the film appears to be that a young girl should want nothing more than to be a hapless fashion addict who spends their day obsessed with celebrities and spouting off useless conversation with other vacuous fashion addicts. Oh, they also have to be rich. They don’t tell girls how they are to come into this money, but they should have a lot of it.
With the rise in popularity of Paris Hilton, Nicole Ritchie, Prince William, Kimberly Stewart and other young and rich kids, it seems that popular culture is cool with selling young men and mainly young women the idea that the perfect lifestyle includes expensive clothing, cars, parties, pampering, and optional plastic surgery. In this world of money, young people are told that they should also have only one long-term goal: to be famous for being rich and attractive. The only problem with this pop culture future is that they don’t bother to tell kids ways to go about making the money or achieving fame. They also don’t happen to mention the real cost of designer fashions and accessories, or what happens when the credit card bills come in the mail.
This kind of trend has existed before in American society around the turn of the previous century when the lifestyles of the Rockerfellers and Vanderbilts were splashed all over mainstream newspapers. However, their lives were portrayed more as fantasies that were completely unreachable by working class people, whereas today’s batch of young, wealthy celebrities are seen as contemporaries. Reality television and constant media attention gives regular kids the idea that if Paris was hanging out at Starbucks, they might actually have a chance to sip lattes with her. Those of us who are older and wiser see a far different scenario, where Paris’ ultra-buffed bodyguards clear the entire Starbucks out before Miss Hilton enters. Then they order her coffee drink for her and stand in close proximity as she text messages her latest Greek fling. The closest an average person will ever get to Paris Hilton is maybe two yards, if they happen to wait overnight at a premier and get a good, front seat spot at the velvet rope. As for conversation, I don’t think so, unless of course you are waiting on the table at the nouveaux cuisine restaurant she hits while shopping on Rodeo Drive.
My point is that there is a strong disconnect taking place between fantasy and reality that has never existed prior to this generation, and my concern is for the future of these kids who think that the only thing in life that makes you successful is the ability to consume high-priced goods and achieve fame. What happens when these young people, particularly girls, find themselves declaring bankruptcy at 21 years old, because they have tried to keep up with their so-called “contemporary’s” lifestyle? How is that young dude going to feel when he hits 23 and hasn’t been the star of a reality TV show, and doesn’t have paparazzi following his every move?
Thankfully, I’m a parent and I can give my child a better perspective on things. I’ll tell Rachael that achieving wealth and success is possible, but it takes a tremendous amount of hard work. I’ll also tell her that fame and money isn’t everything and that she should take the words of the Dali Lama into consideration by telling her to judge her success by what she has “to give up in order to get it.”
As for the rest of the upcoming generation, let’s hope that the government develops a stronger college student loan program, so that when fame and fortune don’t magically hit them by the time they are 22, they can get educated and make an honest contribution to society. Maybe we will all luck out and once they enter college they will develop a healthy distain for the bourgeoisie lifestyle, and finally the glorious day will come when we don’t have to see anymore previews for stupid Hilary Duff films while waiting for our animated family flick.
Friday, August 18, 2006
I'll Try This Tagging Thing Just This Once
Most of the tags that I’ve received ask me about average stuff that I already have in my profile such as my favorite book or what I’m currently listening to, but this latest tag (which was shouted out to me unofficially) by Camie Vog seems to fit in with the whole purpose of my writing, which is my constant and persistent pursuit of trying to figure out how I wound up here in Suburbia, married with a kid and a dog living in a postcard perfect neighborhood. Who knows, maybe after all of this heavy hearted stuff I’ve written, this simple tag will give me the answers I’m looking for.
10 Years Ago – August 1996
I was wonderfully optimistic having just married my first husband in May of that year, and moved to Seattle a month later to begin art school. I was working a straight-laced job during the day, while taking classes at night where I was learning the ins and outs of the music industry. It was a really happy, carefree time for me. We were living in a classic apartment in the Queen Anne district of Seattle, two blocks away from the Space Needle, and enjoying weekend trips to British Columbia. The only bummer was that we were learning of Seattle’s quirk about meeting new people; those originally from the Jet City tend to keep to themselves, so you must make nice with your fellow transplants. I couldn’t complain about my life 10 years ago, it was nice.
5 Years Ago – August 2001
Wow! Just a mere five years after starting art school, I was out of the music industry already. My classes prepared me for what the business used to be like, but couldn’t prepare me for what it had become; overrun by business people who cared less about the artists and their music and more about lining their pockets and the bottom line with crap. By March of 2001 I had been working myself stupid, and I was officially burned out. By then I had met Jeff, and was living back in Seattle five years ago this month. We were traveling a lot. It was in August of 2001 that I had a job offer in the music industry in New York, something that I would have died for a mere five years earlier, but I was truly done working 60-80 hours a week with no personal life. At this time I had also begun working for the Museum of Flight coordinating their special events. Little did I know that special events management in the area of fundraising would be my new career. Jeff and I weren’t married yet, but we had just bought a house. This was also a happy time in my life.
1 Year Ago – August 2005
I was contemplating going back to work again. Jeff had graduated with his MBA just two months prior, and was thinking about starting a business. The prospect of a new venture by my spouse, plus the fact that I was tired of having intellectual conversations revolving around cartoons, bottles, diapers, and when we were having our next child, gave me the perfect excuse to polish up my resume. Rachael was a year and a half, I had recently had a heart-to-heart discussion with my stepdad about my mother’s past which answered some very important questions I had about my own life. I was still trying to figure out if this life I had made in Suburbia was truly something I wanted, or was something my mother kept telling me I wanted. Around this time last year, the clouds were starting to lift, and I was filled with optimism.
5 Songs I Know All The Words To
“The Chauffer” – Duran Duran (leftovers from an early teen obsession with John Taylor)
“Stairway to Heaven” – Led Zeppelin (Childhood memories)
“Paranoid” – Black Sabbath (More childhood memories)
“Mother” – Tori Amos (She’s a goddess)
“Every Me and Every You” – Placebo (Gotta love snotty ass Brit pop with an edge)
5 Snacks
Grapes (‘cause they are low cal)
Blueberries (so that maybe I won’t be senile by 60)
Chocolate (sometimes better than sex depending on the brand)
This is going to sound lame, but I really don’t snack that much, so that’s the end of the list.
5 Things I Would Do With $100,000
Invest in the Chinese currency market
Make a big donation to my favorite Jewish charity
By at least 5 pairs of Fluevog shoes
Even bigger college fund for Miss Rachael
Take my entire family on a fantastic, 10-day cruise
5 Places I Would Run Away To
Government Street in Victoria, British Columbia
Emerald Queen Casino – Fife, Washington
Powells Books in Portland, Oregon
Eclectic Beach area of San Diego, California
New Zealand – if I didn’t have any time restrictions or funding limitations
5 Things I Would Never Wear
Shoes with a heel over 2” (even though I’m only 4’11”)
Spandex
Low rider jeans and a belly shirt (unless I was part of a living art stretchmarks exhibit)
Neon pink, yellow or green
My birthday suit in public
5 Favorite T.V. Shows
The Daily Show with Jon Stewart – Comedy Central
Drawn Together – Comedy Central
Real Time with Bill Maher – HBO
The Colbert Report – Comedy Central
CNN, BBC America, MSNBC, and other news
5 Greatest Joys
Rachael (in a good mood, of course)
Jeff (also when he’s in a good mood)
Hanging out with friends
Writing
Sex or Chocolate (which ever one I happened to get, if they both come together, even better!)
5 Favorite Toys
Computer
iPod
Exercise Bike
I’m not really a gadget person, and aside from the ones I’ve listed above, I’m not going to go into anything else.
Well, this didn’t give me all of the answers I was looking for, but it was kind of fun to do. In retrospect, I think I will attribute my happiness to my eternal optimism, even when life is very fucked up, as well as a steady diet of Comedy Central shows. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must go scour the kitchen for some chocolate, because my husband fell asleep two hours ago.
10 Years Ago – August 1996
I was wonderfully optimistic having just married my first husband in May of that year, and moved to Seattle a month later to begin art school. I was working a straight-laced job during the day, while taking classes at night where I was learning the ins and outs of the music industry. It was a really happy, carefree time for me. We were living in a classic apartment in the Queen Anne district of Seattle, two blocks away from the Space Needle, and enjoying weekend trips to British Columbia. The only bummer was that we were learning of Seattle’s quirk about meeting new people; those originally from the Jet City tend to keep to themselves, so you must make nice with your fellow transplants. I couldn’t complain about my life 10 years ago, it was nice.
5 Years Ago – August 2001
Wow! Just a mere five years after starting art school, I was out of the music industry already. My classes prepared me for what the business used to be like, but couldn’t prepare me for what it had become; overrun by business people who cared less about the artists and their music and more about lining their pockets and the bottom line with crap. By March of 2001 I had been working myself stupid, and I was officially burned out. By then I had met Jeff, and was living back in Seattle five years ago this month. We were traveling a lot. It was in August of 2001 that I had a job offer in the music industry in New York, something that I would have died for a mere five years earlier, but I was truly done working 60-80 hours a week with no personal life. At this time I had also begun working for the Museum of Flight coordinating their special events. Little did I know that special events management in the area of fundraising would be my new career. Jeff and I weren’t married yet, but we had just bought a house. This was also a happy time in my life.
1 Year Ago – August 2005
I was contemplating going back to work again. Jeff had graduated with his MBA just two months prior, and was thinking about starting a business. The prospect of a new venture by my spouse, plus the fact that I was tired of having intellectual conversations revolving around cartoons, bottles, diapers, and when we were having our next child, gave me the perfect excuse to polish up my resume. Rachael was a year and a half, I had recently had a heart-to-heart discussion with my stepdad about my mother’s past which answered some very important questions I had about my own life. I was still trying to figure out if this life I had made in Suburbia was truly something I wanted, or was something my mother kept telling me I wanted. Around this time last year, the clouds were starting to lift, and I was filled with optimism.
5 Songs I Know All The Words To
“The Chauffer” – Duran Duran (leftovers from an early teen obsession with John Taylor)
“Stairway to Heaven” – Led Zeppelin (Childhood memories)
“Paranoid” – Black Sabbath (More childhood memories)
“Mother” – Tori Amos (She’s a goddess)
“Every Me and Every You” – Placebo (Gotta love snotty ass Brit pop with an edge)
5 Snacks
Grapes (‘cause they are low cal)
Blueberries (so that maybe I won’t be senile by 60)
Chocolate (sometimes better than sex depending on the brand)
This is going to sound lame, but I really don’t snack that much, so that’s the end of the list.
5 Things I Would Do With $100,000
Invest in the Chinese currency market
Make a big donation to my favorite Jewish charity
By at least 5 pairs of Fluevog shoes
Even bigger college fund for Miss Rachael
Take my entire family on a fantastic, 10-day cruise
5 Places I Would Run Away To
Government Street in Victoria, British Columbia
Emerald Queen Casino – Fife, Washington
Powells Books in Portland, Oregon
Eclectic Beach area of San Diego, California
New Zealand – if I didn’t have any time restrictions or funding limitations
5 Things I Would Never Wear
Shoes with a heel over 2” (even though I’m only 4’11”)
Spandex
Low rider jeans and a belly shirt (unless I was part of a living art stretchmarks exhibit)
Neon pink, yellow or green
My birthday suit in public
5 Favorite T.V. Shows
The Daily Show with Jon Stewart – Comedy Central
Drawn Together – Comedy Central
Real Time with Bill Maher – HBO
The Colbert Report – Comedy Central
CNN, BBC America, MSNBC, and other news
5 Greatest Joys
Rachael (in a good mood, of course)
Jeff (also when he’s in a good mood)
Hanging out with friends
Writing
Sex or Chocolate (which ever one I happened to get, if they both come together, even better!)
5 Favorite Toys
Computer
iPod
Exercise Bike
I’m not really a gadget person, and aside from the ones I’ve listed above, I’m not going to go into anything else.
Well, this didn’t give me all of the answers I was looking for, but it was kind of fun to do. In retrospect, I think I will attribute my happiness to my eternal optimism, even when life is very fucked up, as well as a steady diet of Comedy Central shows. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must go scour the kitchen for some chocolate, because my husband fell asleep two hours ago.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Things I've Learned from my Toddler
She may only be 2 ¾ years old, but my Rachael has a perspective on life that only an old, wise soul could carry. I could write some sappy essay about how I never felt love before her birth, or that her birth was the defining moment when I realized who I truly was, but that would be the stuff that Hollywood likes, and since I’m not into Hollywood, I’ve chosen to forego the sickeningly sweet sentiment, and share the other things I’ve learned from my toddler.
I’ve learned how to rebuke the temptation of being absorbed into a consumer-obsessed culture by watching Rachael. Forget expensive electronics, designer handbags, name brand jeans, and expensive jewelry, when it comes to rewards for a job done well nothing beats stickers. Fishy stickers, kitty stickers, fuzzy stickers, shiny stickers, stickers are the shit! The only thing better than earning stickers is sharing them. Rachael shares her stickers with everyone; me, Jeff, the dog, in fact the dog spent the better part of an hour yesterday flipping his head from side to side trying to get to a large, puffy sticker that Rachael affixed to his back as a reward for him going poopy outside.
Rachael has taught me a thing or two about cuisine. She may not have a sophisticated palate, but my gal knows what she likes. If the place we are eating at doesn’t give you a toy with your meal or let you fill your plate with Jello, chicken drumsticks, and cherry tomatoes, then it’s no place you want to be. Prior to Rachael, Jeff and I used to make fun of places like the Old Country Buffet. We used to laugh it off as a place where old people eat, and we thought the food was crap, now we end up there at least two or three times a month. Remember all of the things you said you’d “never” do when you had kids…yeah, me, too.
On the subject of eating, Rachael has taught me that you need to be selective about what you put into your body. She likes chicken and fruit, which makes me feel like I’m doing something right, because those are healthy. On the other hand, never underestimate a 28 lb. toddler’s ability to completely snub dinner, then within minutes put away a quarter of a single-layer, 9” chocolate cake. I know I should have stopped her, but I’m a hapless sugar addict, so I was shamefully there with her. I’ll set aside my feelings of guilt knowing that cake is made with milk and eggs, and those are both healthy things.
Rachael has taught me a tremendous amount of perspective. In my short time with her, I’ve learned that there isn’t a problem in the world that can’t be fixed by a Dora the Explorer sippy cup full of soy milk. Whether it’s a substantial bump to the head while trying to straddle two, solid, wood chairs in slippery, footy pajamas or a scolding from Daddy for making one of many, many, many messes, that sweet soy milk is a cure for all ills, and the Dora sippy remains its constant partner. In fact, the two are inseparable, and if the circumstance presents itself where the Dora sippy isn’t available, then it is up to you to assert your independence by screaming your head off until someone around you hand washes it and fills it with soy milk.
Sometimes the biggest crises can be solved with the simplest solutions. Rachael has an easy and basic way of “fixing” things. For weeks she has been doing very well in her potty training, but the other night she fell off the wagon and managed to soil one of her coveted pairs of panties. She informed me of the accident, just as I stepped into another room to put something away. I told her I would be out in just a moment, and we would go change her into a pull-up, but Rachael had other plans. She yelled, “I clean it up,” and just as I came face to face with her, she proceeded to empty the contents of the soiled panties onto the kitchen floor. The solution may not always be the cleanest, but it is always the simplest.
Some other valuable lessons from Rachael are that no phone conversation worth having lasts longer than the time it takes to say “hi”, discuss the dog, going potty, and your friends at school. If you don’t like the food on your plate, then taste the same food on the plate of the person sitting next to you, because it could be better. Sprinkles taste good on everything including meat and pickles. Forget radio stations with genres, big hits, classic rock, ballads, alternative music, the only song worth listening to is “Farmer in the Dell”, and it deserves at least a dozen consecutive plays before you can really get the message.
Most of all, I’ve learned that no matter how stupid or pathetic you think you look doing something, if you are having fun, then who the hell cares.
I’ve learned how to rebuke the temptation of being absorbed into a consumer-obsessed culture by watching Rachael. Forget expensive electronics, designer handbags, name brand jeans, and expensive jewelry, when it comes to rewards for a job done well nothing beats stickers. Fishy stickers, kitty stickers, fuzzy stickers, shiny stickers, stickers are the shit! The only thing better than earning stickers is sharing them. Rachael shares her stickers with everyone; me, Jeff, the dog, in fact the dog spent the better part of an hour yesterday flipping his head from side to side trying to get to a large, puffy sticker that Rachael affixed to his back as a reward for him going poopy outside.
Rachael has taught me a thing or two about cuisine. She may not have a sophisticated palate, but my gal knows what she likes. If the place we are eating at doesn’t give you a toy with your meal or let you fill your plate with Jello, chicken drumsticks, and cherry tomatoes, then it’s no place you want to be. Prior to Rachael, Jeff and I used to make fun of places like the Old Country Buffet. We used to laugh it off as a place where old people eat, and we thought the food was crap, now we end up there at least two or three times a month. Remember all of the things you said you’d “never” do when you had kids…yeah, me, too.
On the subject of eating, Rachael has taught me that you need to be selective about what you put into your body. She likes chicken and fruit, which makes me feel like I’m doing something right, because those are healthy. On the other hand, never underestimate a 28 lb. toddler’s ability to completely snub dinner, then within minutes put away a quarter of a single-layer, 9” chocolate cake. I know I should have stopped her, but I’m a hapless sugar addict, so I was shamefully there with her. I’ll set aside my feelings of guilt knowing that cake is made with milk and eggs, and those are both healthy things.
Rachael has taught me a tremendous amount of perspective. In my short time with her, I’ve learned that there isn’t a problem in the world that can’t be fixed by a Dora the Explorer sippy cup full of soy milk. Whether it’s a substantial bump to the head while trying to straddle two, solid, wood chairs in slippery, footy pajamas or a scolding from Daddy for making one of many, many, many messes, that sweet soy milk is a cure for all ills, and the Dora sippy remains its constant partner. In fact, the two are inseparable, and if the circumstance presents itself where the Dora sippy isn’t available, then it is up to you to assert your independence by screaming your head off until someone around you hand washes it and fills it with soy milk.
Sometimes the biggest crises can be solved with the simplest solutions. Rachael has an easy and basic way of “fixing” things. For weeks she has been doing very well in her potty training, but the other night she fell off the wagon and managed to soil one of her coveted pairs of panties. She informed me of the accident, just as I stepped into another room to put something away. I told her I would be out in just a moment, and we would go change her into a pull-up, but Rachael had other plans. She yelled, “I clean it up,” and just as I came face to face with her, she proceeded to empty the contents of the soiled panties onto the kitchen floor. The solution may not always be the cleanest, but it is always the simplest.
Some other valuable lessons from Rachael are that no phone conversation worth having lasts longer than the time it takes to say “hi”, discuss the dog, going potty, and your friends at school. If you don’t like the food on your plate, then taste the same food on the plate of the person sitting next to you, because it could be better. Sprinkles taste good on everything including meat and pickles. Forget radio stations with genres, big hits, classic rock, ballads, alternative music, the only song worth listening to is “Farmer in the Dell”, and it deserves at least a dozen consecutive plays before you can really get the message.
Most of all, I’ve learned that no matter how stupid or pathetic you think you look doing something, if you are having fun, then who the hell cares.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Simple Solutions to Seemingly Difficult Problems
Recently, I dedicated one essay to asking “why, why, why” and was advised to instead do something positive and offer a “how, how, how”. After much thought and consideration, I have managed to solve a lot of the world’s difficult problems in just a few hours. Unfortunately, I don’t hold a powerful position where anyone will listen to me, but nonetheless I will vocalize my solutions and maybe those who can do something will listen, doubtful, but hell, why not.
Israel vs. Hezbollah – This issue has been a thorn in the ass of the United Nations for about a month now, with everyone getting all in a huff about what to do. We are all railing one way or another, but does it really affect you? I mean, when you try to look busy at work, battle traffic to get home, eat dinner, have family time, search the internet for joke emails, and attempt to get to bed at a reasonable hour, how does this issue play into your daily life? The truth is that it doesn’t. No matter what those bastard economists say, it won’t affect the price of oil, and it’s not going to be the beginning of World War III, so the simple solution is to let the two groups battle it out. If the U.N. wants to send troops in, let them. Maybe after a while of trying to deal with crazy bastards with bombs and bloodlust, they won’t be so harsh on Israel.
Is Castro Dead Yet? – Fidel Castro isn’t in the best of shape. Sure, the government of Cuba is quick to tell the world that he’s recovering beautifully, and he will be at the helm of the dictatorship again soon, but the reality is that he is one old guy with a wailing nicotine habit, so his days are very numbered. When he went into the hospital, George W., Condi Rice, and a bunch of other neocons were quick to get on television and call on the people of Cuba to rise up and fight their government to create a democracy. Ironic isn’t it! Once Castro is dead, which will probably be sooner than later, the Cuban people will do what they want to do, with or without, the American aristocracy dictating one way or the other. My only hope is that I can someday travel to Havana without having to go through Canada first, because the extra airfare leg is a killer.
Airport Security – Just when you thought you didn’t have to do a strip search in order to get on a 45 minute flight from Seattle to Idaho comes the threat of liquid explosives. Can we drop the whole bullshit political correctness and actually begin searching people who are most likely going to be the ones blowing up airplanes? Nearly every hijacking or terrorist attack against an airplane since the early 1980s has been committed by a male of Middle Eastern decent between the ages of 22-35 years old. Not that the white guy with the last name of Smith who graduated from Harvard won’t attempt to take a 747 for a joyride, but until that happens, the TSA needs to stop searching 85 year-old Congressional Medal of Honor winners, and focus on the people who should be searched. Reality is one unfair bitch, but beating around the bush helps no one.
Suri Cruise – That crazy S.O.B. Tom Cruise and his young, starlet girlfriend, Katie, had a kid and all of the tabloid media has been kvetching that they haven’t seen her. Geez, the paparazzi is usually so polite and caring; I don’t know why any set of parents would want to shelter their kid from the love and attention of the public eye. First of all, these two are serious Scientologists, so there may be something in their religion that says that they can’t expose their kids to photographs for fear it will rob their souls, or something weird like that. Second, Tommy’s net worth hovers somewhere around $600 million, so if he’s not too keen on giving would be kidnappers a perfect headshot, then as a parent, I can’t blame him. If the entertainment media really wants to see the kid their best bet would be to drop the issue completely, because if there’s one thing that celebrities hate more than too much attention, it’s not enough attention.
A Real Issue – While you are focusing on the crap in the Middle East, an aging dictator’s health, having to ditch your hairspray at the airport, and celebrity spawn, you are not concentrating on something big that deserves attention. Oil companies reported record high earnings in their second quarter. In just a short, three month time span, Exxon Mobile made over $10 billion, British Petroleum cleared over $9 billion, and Dutch Shell had to eek it out with just over $6 billion. Did I mention this was in just 90 measly days! The solution is to buy gas from CITGO. They are the Venezuelan oil company, and despite all of the negative press that Hugo Chavez has received in the U.S., they are a company that uses their profits to re-invest in their own people. Chavez wouldn’t play ball with the Bush family, so the spin doctors are attempting to portray him as a dictator who is anti-U.S., even though the neocons tried to sponsor a coup to get him forced out of office to control the oil. Iraq anyone? Buying gas from CITGO will give the oil conglomerates less power, that’s all there is to it, and will force our government to begin seriously thinking about alternative fuels and energy independence.
Better yet, once Castro kicks, we could help Cuba rebuild their economy by having them manufacture sugar cane that can be turned into the ethanol the rest of the world can use for fuel foregoing the oil issue completely. Think about the benefits, buy 10 sugar ethanol tanks of gas, and receive a box of Cuban cigars without the fear of getting busted by the Department of Alcohol, Tobacco & Firearms. This would be one heck of a win-win!
Hopefully, these answers will be heard by someone who will actually give a rat’s ass, but if they aren’t then at least I was able to make a positive contribution to the public dialog, as well as identify simple solutions to seemingly difficult problems.
Israel vs. Hezbollah – This issue has been a thorn in the ass of the United Nations for about a month now, with everyone getting all in a huff about what to do. We are all railing one way or another, but does it really affect you? I mean, when you try to look busy at work, battle traffic to get home, eat dinner, have family time, search the internet for joke emails, and attempt to get to bed at a reasonable hour, how does this issue play into your daily life? The truth is that it doesn’t. No matter what those bastard economists say, it won’t affect the price of oil, and it’s not going to be the beginning of World War III, so the simple solution is to let the two groups battle it out. If the U.N. wants to send troops in, let them. Maybe after a while of trying to deal with crazy bastards with bombs and bloodlust, they won’t be so harsh on Israel.
Is Castro Dead Yet? – Fidel Castro isn’t in the best of shape. Sure, the government of Cuba is quick to tell the world that he’s recovering beautifully, and he will be at the helm of the dictatorship again soon, but the reality is that he is one old guy with a wailing nicotine habit, so his days are very numbered. When he went into the hospital, George W., Condi Rice, and a bunch of other neocons were quick to get on television and call on the people of Cuba to rise up and fight their government to create a democracy. Ironic isn’t it! Once Castro is dead, which will probably be sooner than later, the Cuban people will do what they want to do, with or without, the American aristocracy dictating one way or the other. My only hope is that I can someday travel to Havana without having to go through Canada first, because the extra airfare leg is a killer.
Airport Security – Just when you thought you didn’t have to do a strip search in order to get on a 45 minute flight from Seattle to Idaho comes the threat of liquid explosives. Can we drop the whole bullshit political correctness and actually begin searching people who are most likely going to be the ones blowing up airplanes? Nearly every hijacking or terrorist attack against an airplane since the early 1980s has been committed by a male of Middle Eastern decent between the ages of 22-35 years old. Not that the white guy with the last name of Smith who graduated from Harvard won’t attempt to take a 747 for a joyride, but until that happens, the TSA needs to stop searching 85 year-old Congressional Medal of Honor winners, and focus on the people who should be searched. Reality is one unfair bitch, but beating around the bush helps no one.
Suri Cruise – That crazy S.O.B. Tom Cruise and his young, starlet girlfriend, Katie, had a kid and all of the tabloid media has been kvetching that they haven’t seen her. Geez, the paparazzi is usually so polite and caring; I don’t know why any set of parents would want to shelter their kid from the love and attention of the public eye. First of all, these two are serious Scientologists, so there may be something in their religion that says that they can’t expose their kids to photographs for fear it will rob their souls, or something weird like that. Second, Tommy’s net worth hovers somewhere around $600 million, so if he’s not too keen on giving would be kidnappers a perfect headshot, then as a parent, I can’t blame him. If the entertainment media really wants to see the kid their best bet would be to drop the issue completely, because if there’s one thing that celebrities hate more than too much attention, it’s not enough attention.
A Real Issue – While you are focusing on the crap in the Middle East, an aging dictator’s health, having to ditch your hairspray at the airport, and celebrity spawn, you are not concentrating on something big that deserves attention. Oil companies reported record high earnings in their second quarter. In just a short, three month time span, Exxon Mobile made over $10 billion, British Petroleum cleared over $9 billion, and Dutch Shell had to eek it out with just over $6 billion. Did I mention this was in just 90 measly days! The solution is to buy gas from CITGO. They are the Venezuelan oil company, and despite all of the negative press that Hugo Chavez has received in the U.S., they are a company that uses their profits to re-invest in their own people. Chavez wouldn’t play ball with the Bush family, so the spin doctors are attempting to portray him as a dictator who is anti-U.S., even though the neocons tried to sponsor a coup to get him forced out of office to control the oil. Iraq anyone? Buying gas from CITGO will give the oil conglomerates less power, that’s all there is to it, and will force our government to begin seriously thinking about alternative fuels and energy independence.
Better yet, once Castro kicks, we could help Cuba rebuild their economy by having them manufacture sugar cane that can be turned into the ethanol the rest of the world can use for fuel foregoing the oil issue completely. Think about the benefits, buy 10 sugar ethanol tanks of gas, and receive a box of Cuban cigars without the fear of getting busted by the Department of Alcohol, Tobacco & Firearms. This would be one heck of a win-win!
Hopefully, these answers will be heard by someone who will actually give a rat’s ass, but if they aren’t then at least I was able to make a positive contribution to the public dialog, as well as identify simple solutions to seemingly difficult problems.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Panty Obsession & Toilet Dreams
On a regular basis, I don't do much thinking about underwear or going to the bathroom, but lately our house is filled with spirited talk about toilets and unmentionables. My little Rachael has begun the daunting toddler challenge known as potty training, and in order to encourage her success, Jeff and I have chosen panties and stickers as rewards for her potty accomplishments.
The deal is simple: when Rachael does a successful potty, she receives stickers. If she has a good week, she gets a new package of underwear. So far, my little Miss has managed to rack up quite a collection of undies including Blue’s Clues, Dora the Explorer, Elmo, and Barbie. The hard part comes each day when we get home, and she has to choose just one pair. I have to fan the panties out on display as if she’s a millionaire businessman picking out a diamond bracelet for his trophy wife. After several minutes of her scanning back and forth talking about each panty character, I have to assert myself and try to pick the pair she will run around in for the rest of the evening.
To Rachael, panties are an outfit all to themselves. I tried to show her that panties can be worn under pants or a skirt, but she’s not having any of that. After all, you can’t see Boots the Monkey smiling up at you if you have something covering him, so many a night we sit down to dinner with a toddler sporting just her tiny skivvies and a pair of socks. Who says life isn’t interesting!
The unfortunate thing about this whole potty training experience is that Jeff and I have definitely figured out that Rachael is going to be smarter than we are. She loves the stickers, and spent one night running into the bathroom and sitting on the toilet in two minute intervals thinking that for merely copping a dry squat she would be rewarded. When she realized that stickers only came with a production worthy of a flush, she changed her game. The next night, she would venture into the bathroom and complete her fake potty by flushing the toilet. This presented a conundrum, because we assumed she went the first time and gave her the stickers. The second time she did this (just 15 minutes after the initial success); we called her on it telling her that she didn’t really go potty. She was way ahead of us, anticipating the response, and with a coy look smiled and said, “Mommy, I flush it.” It really sucks when they learn to think for themselves, and you have to struggle with how to introduce logic to a two-year-old.
We ended up giving her the stickers, and most likely, really good confidence that if she just comes up with a successful argument she can get what she wants. The dozen toilet flushes that followed bared no reward, and the next night, thankfully we were right on track.
The challenge with potty training is to try to encourage them to move along without pressuring them. I’ve been warned by toilet-weary parents that if you pressure, then the child will turn on you, and resist the potty, so we are taking a laid back approach armed with our stickers and mini-packs of kiddie undies. I try to be casual about the whole experience, but I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I am looking forward to the day when I don’t have to clean anymore five alarm poopies.
The other nice part about this method of potty-sticker-panty rewards is that Rachael has learned the value of being rewarded for successful achievement without having it turn into some extreme method of spoiling. Stickers are simple, and the panties only come at the end of a cumulative success. We will be able to use this as she gets older with a nice toy or family dinner when she completes a school semester or aces the ridiculous state-required exams.
Best of all, she completely understands the process, and has used it at home rewarding the dog with his biscuits for going poopies outside, and giving me stickers just the other day when I rushed into the house and straight to the bathroom. Heavy traffic, warm weather, and the 32 oz. bottled water warrant a hasty sprint to the john. I passed by Rachael letting her know I was home and that I had to go potty really, really bad. She acknowledged me, and minutes later as I emerged to wash my hands, she was standing there with two stickers and a pair of my panties. Sometimes parenthood is downright scary.
The deal is simple: when Rachael does a successful potty, she receives stickers. If she has a good week, she gets a new package of underwear. So far, my little Miss has managed to rack up quite a collection of undies including Blue’s Clues, Dora the Explorer, Elmo, and Barbie. The hard part comes each day when we get home, and she has to choose just one pair. I have to fan the panties out on display as if she’s a millionaire businessman picking out a diamond bracelet for his trophy wife. After several minutes of her scanning back and forth talking about each panty character, I have to assert myself and try to pick the pair she will run around in for the rest of the evening.
To Rachael, panties are an outfit all to themselves. I tried to show her that panties can be worn under pants or a skirt, but she’s not having any of that. After all, you can’t see Boots the Monkey smiling up at you if you have something covering him, so many a night we sit down to dinner with a toddler sporting just her tiny skivvies and a pair of socks. Who says life isn’t interesting!
The unfortunate thing about this whole potty training experience is that Jeff and I have definitely figured out that Rachael is going to be smarter than we are. She loves the stickers, and spent one night running into the bathroom and sitting on the toilet in two minute intervals thinking that for merely copping a dry squat she would be rewarded. When she realized that stickers only came with a production worthy of a flush, she changed her game. The next night, she would venture into the bathroom and complete her fake potty by flushing the toilet. This presented a conundrum, because we assumed she went the first time and gave her the stickers. The second time she did this (just 15 minutes after the initial success); we called her on it telling her that she didn’t really go potty. She was way ahead of us, anticipating the response, and with a coy look smiled and said, “Mommy, I flush it.” It really sucks when they learn to think for themselves, and you have to struggle with how to introduce logic to a two-year-old.
We ended up giving her the stickers, and most likely, really good confidence that if she just comes up with a successful argument she can get what she wants. The dozen toilet flushes that followed bared no reward, and the next night, thankfully we were right on track.
The challenge with potty training is to try to encourage them to move along without pressuring them. I’ve been warned by toilet-weary parents that if you pressure, then the child will turn on you, and resist the potty, so we are taking a laid back approach armed with our stickers and mini-packs of kiddie undies. I try to be casual about the whole experience, but I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I am looking forward to the day when I don’t have to clean anymore five alarm poopies.
The other nice part about this method of potty-sticker-panty rewards is that Rachael has learned the value of being rewarded for successful achievement without having it turn into some extreme method of spoiling. Stickers are simple, and the panties only come at the end of a cumulative success. We will be able to use this as she gets older with a nice toy or family dinner when she completes a school semester or aces the ridiculous state-required exams.
Best of all, she completely understands the process, and has used it at home rewarding the dog with his biscuits for going poopies outside, and giving me stickers just the other day when I rushed into the house and straight to the bathroom. Heavy traffic, warm weather, and the 32 oz. bottled water warrant a hasty sprint to the john. I passed by Rachael letting her know I was home and that I had to go potty really, really bad. She acknowledged me, and minutes later as I emerged to wash my hands, she was standing there with two stickers and a pair of my panties. Sometimes parenthood is downright scary.
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Minimum Wage, Maximum Shame
Remember the days when your school teacher would list items on your report card that needed improvement. For me it was always “needs to avoid unnecessary talking”, which seems a little outdated considering that I ended up earning my college degree in Communication. If I was going to apply this same method of suggestion to our government, perhaps the report card comment would read, “needs to concentrate less on keeping the citizens who do all the work poor” followed by “needs to pander less to the special interest” and maybe ending with “must not vote oneself a huge pay raise then refuse to give the lowest paid workers an extra $2 an hour.”
Score one for the top one percent that owns this country, this last week, as Anderson Cooper and CNN desperately tried to distract you with 24 hour coverage of the shit going on in the Middle East, our lawmakers decided to deny a minimum wage increase. This is on the heels of voting themselves one hell of a sweet pay raise just a couple of months ago. While unskilled workers try to eek out a living making $5.15 per hour, it’s nice to know that our Senate doesn’t have to give up their Starbucks fix (which most likely totals up to about $5.15 per visit), because they are now making around $160,000 per year.
Maybe I’m being too harsh and should cut them some slack, because kissing King George’s ass 24/7 and accepting non-stop corporate payoffs in the form of campaign contributions is tough work. After all, it takes millions and millions of dollars to convince the average person, who may or may not have healthcare, that you feel their pain, and empathize with their situation.
To give some props where needed, CNN did take time to interview some minimum wage workers to stress how difficult it was to try and make a living on the pittance the government requires companies to pay. Most of the workers they talked with were immigrants and worked 12-14 hours per day, six to seven days a week. Yet for their hard work, our esteemed lawmakers bowed to their own employers, the corporate interest, and told these people who break their backs for the little bit that they earn, that a couple more bucks isn’t in their cards.
There hasn’t been a minimum wage increase in this country since 1997, yet Congress has voted itself $30,000 in wage increases. When Jeff and I were both working full-time for companies, our combined salaries didn’t come close to $160,000 per year, yet these schmucks have the nerve to rake it in, then turn around and tell the single mom busting her ass with two jobs that she doesn’t deserve a lousy $2 extra per hour!
The CNN report pointed out that someone who works for minimum wage makes about $41 per day before taxes, which isn’t enough to fill a gas tank at the current fuel prices. Lawmakers should hold their heads in shame every time they enter an establishment where minimum wage workers greet them with a smile as they bring them their double soy mocha latte. I am proud to live in a country where the majority of us are willing to work hard and take pride in our jobs. However, I am embarrassed that we’ve let a bunch of elitist assholes run the show. C’mon people, we can do better than six-figure per year congressmen who sit around all day in golf clubs schmoozing with corporate robber barons.
My sister is a school teacher with a Master’s degree in Education. She has several years of teaching experience under her belt, and is not a stranger to putting in 12 hour days. Her students’ parents call her at home, she spends extra time with kids who need help, and her future goals include a position in the administrative end running a school, so she can make a larger contribution to improving the education for children. For all of this, my sister makes 1/3 of the salary of the idiot Congressman from Washington who let the Green River killer run amuck for years and murder 70+ women. Then when the killer was captured, he took all the credit, and got himself elected to a Congressional seat where he has done the same level of work that he did while tracking the killer…nothing!
I’m not trying to throw a hissy fit, and I’m well aware that life isn’t fair, but the fact that our lawmakers are bringing in over $160,000 per year and get special treatment and perks galore, and the guy at the fast food counter has his entire family living in a lousy, one-bedroom apartment near the airport is just too much of a discrepancy for me.
I propose that we take a decent, nationwide sampling of mid-management level salaries and pay our lawmakers accordingly. Then we bar them from voting themselves a raise (because, duh, who wouldn’t vote themselves a raise if they could), and use the national average, once again. In fact, we make all raises based on merit instead of cost of living, so they only get their 4-7% if they can prove that they’ve done something more than pander to the administration and corporate interests. I think we would all go to bed at night feeling a little better, except the lawmakers who wouldn’t be pleased with the pay cut, because they’d probably have to wake up in the morning, forego their Starbucks fix, and in order to stretch their budget, make their own coffee.
Score one for the top one percent that owns this country, this last week, as Anderson Cooper and CNN desperately tried to distract you with 24 hour coverage of the shit going on in the Middle East, our lawmakers decided to deny a minimum wage increase. This is on the heels of voting themselves one hell of a sweet pay raise just a couple of months ago. While unskilled workers try to eek out a living making $5.15 per hour, it’s nice to know that our Senate doesn’t have to give up their Starbucks fix (which most likely totals up to about $5.15 per visit), because they are now making around $160,000 per year.
Maybe I’m being too harsh and should cut them some slack, because kissing King George’s ass 24/7 and accepting non-stop corporate payoffs in the form of campaign contributions is tough work. After all, it takes millions and millions of dollars to convince the average person, who may or may not have healthcare, that you feel their pain, and empathize with their situation.
To give some props where needed, CNN did take time to interview some minimum wage workers to stress how difficult it was to try and make a living on the pittance the government requires companies to pay. Most of the workers they talked with were immigrants and worked 12-14 hours per day, six to seven days a week. Yet for their hard work, our esteemed lawmakers bowed to their own employers, the corporate interest, and told these people who break their backs for the little bit that they earn, that a couple more bucks isn’t in their cards.
There hasn’t been a minimum wage increase in this country since 1997, yet Congress has voted itself $30,000 in wage increases. When Jeff and I were both working full-time for companies, our combined salaries didn’t come close to $160,000 per year, yet these schmucks have the nerve to rake it in, then turn around and tell the single mom busting her ass with two jobs that she doesn’t deserve a lousy $2 extra per hour!
The CNN report pointed out that someone who works for minimum wage makes about $41 per day before taxes, which isn’t enough to fill a gas tank at the current fuel prices. Lawmakers should hold their heads in shame every time they enter an establishment where minimum wage workers greet them with a smile as they bring them their double soy mocha latte. I am proud to live in a country where the majority of us are willing to work hard and take pride in our jobs. However, I am embarrassed that we’ve let a bunch of elitist assholes run the show. C’mon people, we can do better than six-figure per year congressmen who sit around all day in golf clubs schmoozing with corporate robber barons.
My sister is a school teacher with a Master’s degree in Education. She has several years of teaching experience under her belt, and is not a stranger to putting in 12 hour days. Her students’ parents call her at home, she spends extra time with kids who need help, and her future goals include a position in the administrative end running a school, so she can make a larger contribution to improving the education for children. For all of this, my sister makes 1/3 of the salary of the idiot Congressman from Washington who let the Green River killer run amuck for years and murder 70+ women. Then when the killer was captured, he took all the credit, and got himself elected to a Congressional seat where he has done the same level of work that he did while tracking the killer…nothing!
I’m not trying to throw a hissy fit, and I’m well aware that life isn’t fair, but the fact that our lawmakers are bringing in over $160,000 per year and get special treatment and perks galore, and the guy at the fast food counter has his entire family living in a lousy, one-bedroom apartment near the airport is just too much of a discrepancy for me.
I propose that we take a decent, nationwide sampling of mid-management level salaries and pay our lawmakers accordingly. Then we bar them from voting themselves a raise (because, duh, who wouldn’t vote themselves a raise if they could), and use the national average, once again. In fact, we make all raises based on merit instead of cost of living, so they only get their 4-7% if they can prove that they’ve done something more than pander to the administration and corporate interests. I think we would all go to bed at night feeling a little better, except the lawmakers who wouldn’t be pleased with the pay cut, because they’d probably have to wake up in the morning, forego their Starbucks fix, and in order to stretch their budget, make their own coffee.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Why, Why, Why!
Maybe I’m missing something. Maybe I’m just not hip anymore. Maybe I was abducted by aliens, plunged into a weird time warp whereby in everyday life it would seem I was gone for five minutes, but in alien time it was possibly 20 years. Let’s say I was dropped back into the world, and while I was gone everyone went nuts and no longer gave a rat’s ass about things like war, poverty, scientific discovery, and feeding their minds with knowledge and instead put Lindsay Lohan’s personal life at the top of their mental agenda.
Now I’m back in this Bizzaro, celebrity worshipping world where Paris is queen, stories about Madonna’s need for a new toilet seat at each concert hall she performs in take precedence over headlines discussing laws that were passed to make taking a teenager across state borders for an abortion a felony, and Sir Paul McCartney’s looming divorce will be the big story for Fall. My head is swirling with questions, and most of them start with the word “why”.
Speaking of Lindsay Lohan, why is she so popular? I don’t get it! She is average looking at best, way too skinny, has mediocre acting skills, and I hate to say it, but her remake of Herbie the Lovebug was a huge stinker. Is the world just waiting for the suicidal coke binge, or the rehab stint that turns her into a goodwill ambassador? All I know is that I’m sick of seeing her face everywhere and I hope she goes away soon. From what I can tell she is on minute 13 and by early 2007, maybe her 15 will be up.
Why is a remake of Miami Vice hyped as the hottest movie of the summer? I watched the TV show back in the 80s, and it was fun when I was in the 7th grade and didn’t recognize the fact that Don Johnson’s whole white suit with no socks thing was cheesy at best, and that the black guy who was supposed to be an equal partner hardly ever had story episodes done about him. I have a hard time thinking of Colin Farrell and Jamie Foxx as studly. I know they have the Hollywood, six-pack abs and they both date supermodels, but we are talking about a scruffy guy with a unibrow and the funny-looking dude who played Wanda the Ugly Girl on In Living Color. Jaime was good in Ray, and I’m sure Colin has been good in some of his past movies that I haven’t seen, but I prefer to remember Crockett and Tubbs as part of my television viewing past.
Why are the latest commercials for Hummer allowed to be aired on television? These are the most obnoxious ads I have seen in quite sometime. The first one features a vegetarian guy at a grocery store checkout line watching as the clerk scans piles of packaged meat belonging to the guy in front of him. The veggie guy leaves the store and purchases a Hummer giving the message that you are not a real man unless you are consuming horrific amounts of red meat or driving a gas guzzling, impractical, beast of an automobile. The other Hummer commercial features a woman on the playground. Just as she is about to hoist her kid up on the slide, some brat cuts in front, and when she confronts the brat’s mommy, the bitch brushes her off, sending the scorned mommy to the Hummer dealer to ink papers for her enormous, new ride.
If some brat pushed past my Rachael on the playground and upon confronting the brat’s mommy got a brush off, I wouldn’t charge out to buy the most ridiculous vehicle on the market, I would simply yell, “See Rachael, the little boy was rude, because his mommy is very, very rude, and we call rude mommies by a special name, that name is ‘rotten bitch’.” This would be far more effective, and wouldn’t be so harmful to the environment.
Why has my sweet state gone completely insane? Washington recently upheld a ban on gay marriage under the guise of some goofy, political bullshit name like “defense of marriage”. If they really wanted to defend marriage, then they would deny licenses to people who have been married and divorced more than three times, because if you can’t get it right after the third time, then marriage isn’t for you. They would also make anyone under the age of 25 who wants to get married take a mandatory six month class. I don’t care if it is religious based, taught by a certified marriage counselor, or includes a complimentary DVD of America’s Funniest Wedding Bloopers, as long as it is an honest look at marriage. They would also let gay people get married, because they actually stay married, and could help reduce that 50% nationwide divorce rate.
Why is everyone so shocked when the son of one of Australia’s leading anti-semitic holocaust deniers whose last movie happens to be a finger pointing extravaganza about Christ’s brutal death goes on a drinking binge and verbally bashes Jews, while referring to a female officer as “sugar tits”? I think the term “sugar tits” must be in the New Testament, because I don’t recall them mentioning that phrase at synagogue. Sure, he might be Mel Gibson, but he’s still an asshole. I always thought he was a bit of a Jew hater, and said so when The Passion of The Christ came out. Everyone thought I was so awful and crazy for saying such an outrageous thing about the esteemed Mr. Gibson. I don’t want to say I told you so…actually, yes I do: I told you so! Now maybe next time, you’ll listen when I point out the bad man.
Just a few more whys. Why is anyone surprised that the blonde guy from N’Sync is gay? In my mind, the verdict is still out on Justin Timberlake. Why is it not logical that the same House that battled over giving minimum wage workers a raise had no problem voting themselves a sweet ass salary increase earlier this year? They also gave rich folks a whopping inheritance tax break, so it’s nice to know that Paris Hilton won’t have to give up buying diamond earrings for her dog, so that the guy flinging burgers trying to make ends meet can get paid an extra buck an hour.
Perhaps the aliens didn’t abduct me after all, and instead this is my purgatory: to be the only human being on the planet asking “why”. Oh well, if this is punishment for doing impure things in my life, at least I enjoyed every minute of it.
Now I’m back in this Bizzaro, celebrity worshipping world where Paris is queen, stories about Madonna’s need for a new toilet seat at each concert hall she performs in take precedence over headlines discussing laws that were passed to make taking a teenager across state borders for an abortion a felony, and Sir Paul McCartney’s looming divorce will be the big story for Fall. My head is swirling with questions, and most of them start with the word “why”.
Speaking of Lindsay Lohan, why is she so popular? I don’t get it! She is average looking at best, way too skinny, has mediocre acting skills, and I hate to say it, but her remake of Herbie the Lovebug was a huge stinker. Is the world just waiting for the suicidal coke binge, or the rehab stint that turns her into a goodwill ambassador? All I know is that I’m sick of seeing her face everywhere and I hope she goes away soon. From what I can tell she is on minute 13 and by early 2007, maybe her 15 will be up.
Why is a remake of Miami Vice hyped as the hottest movie of the summer? I watched the TV show back in the 80s, and it was fun when I was in the 7th grade and didn’t recognize the fact that Don Johnson’s whole white suit with no socks thing was cheesy at best, and that the black guy who was supposed to be an equal partner hardly ever had story episodes done about him. I have a hard time thinking of Colin Farrell and Jamie Foxx as studly. I know they have the Hollywood, six-pack abs and they both date supermodels, but we are talking about a scruffy guy with a unibrow and the funny-looking dude who played Wanda the Ugly Girl on In Living Color. Jaime was good in Ray, and I’m sure Colin has been good in some of his past movies that I haven’t seen, but I prefer to remember Crockett and Tubbs as part of my television viewing past.
Why are the latest commercials for Hummer allowed to be aired on television? These are the most obnoxious ads I have seen in quite sometime. The first one features a vegetarian guy at a grocery store checkout line watching as the clerk scans piles of packaged meat belonging to the guy in front of him. The veggie guy leaves the store and purchases a Hummer giving the message that you are not a real man unless you are consuming horrific amounts of red meat or driving a gas guzzling, impractical, beast of an automobile. The other Hummer commercial features a woman on the playground. Just as she is about to hoist her kid up on the slide, some brat cuts in front, and when she confronts the brat’s mommy, the bitch brushes her off, sending the scorned mommy to the Hummer dealer to ink papers for her enormous, new ride.
If some brat pushed past my Rachael on the playground and upon confronting the brat’s mommy got a brush off, I wouldn’t charge out to buy the most ridiculous vehicle on the market, I would simply yell, “See Rachael, the little boy was rude, because his mommy is very, very rude, and we call rude mommies by a special name, that name is ‘rotten bitch’.” This would be far more effective, and wouldn’t be so harmful to the environment.
Why has my sweet state gone completely insane? Washington recently upheld a ban on gay marriage under the guise of some goofy, political bullshit name like “defense of marriage”. If they really wanted to defend marriage, then they would deny licenses to people who have been married and divorced more than three times, because if you can’t get it right after the third time, then marriage isn’t for you. They would also make anyone under the age of 25 who wants to get married take a mandatory six month class. I don’t care if it is religious based, taught by a certified marriage counselor, or includes a complimentary DVD of America’s Funniest Wedding Bloopers, as long as it is an honest look at marriage. They would also let gay people get married, because they actually stay married, and could help reduce that 50% nationwide divorce rate.
Why is everyone so shocked when the son of one of Australia’s leading anti-semitic holocaust deniers whose last movie happens to be a finger pointing extravaganza about Christ’s brutal death goes on a drinking binge and verbally bashes Jews, while referring to a female officer as “sugar tits”? I think the term “sugar tits” must be in the New Testament, because I don’t recall them mentioning that phrase at synagogue. Sure, he might be Mel Gibson, but he’s still an asshole. I always thought he was a bit of a Jew hater, and said so when The Passion of The Christ came out. Everyone thought I was so awful and crazy for saying such an outrageous thing about the esteemed Mr. Gibson. I don’t want to say I told you so…actually, yes I do: I told you so! Now maybe next time, you’ll listen when I point out the bad man.
Just a few more whys. Why is anyone surprised that the blonde guy from N’Sync is gay? In my mind, the verdict is still out on Justin Timberlake. Why is it not logical that the same House that battled over giving minimum wage workers a raise had no problem voting themselves a sweet ass salary increase earlier this year? They also gave rich folks a whopping inheritance tax break, so it’s nice to know that Paris Hilton won’t have to give up buying diamond earrings for her dog, so that the guy flinging burgers trying to make ends meet can get paid an extra buck an hour.
Perhaps the aliens didn’t abduct me after all, and instead this is my purgatory: to be the only human being on the planet asking “why”. Oh well, if this is punishment for doing impure things in my life, at least I enjoyed every minute of it.
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