Every Tuesday night, well except for last week, I venture into the old Jewish area of Seattle known as Seward Park to take classes. These are real Jewish classes, not the pop culture, phony-assed Madonna Kabbalah bullshit. Tonight we discussed Jewish history, and with the Hanukkah holiday upon us, the topic inevitably turned to the Maccabees.
Here is a quick and simple lesson about Hanukkah for those whose knowledge of the Jewish holiday doesn’t go past that weird little spinney, top thing, and that way cool candle holder. The holiday of Hanukkah started when the Greco-Syrians conquered the land of Judea, many, many moons ago. The Maccabees, led by Judah Maccabee, decided not to deal with the Syrians and their shit, so they fought a big, victorious battle and reclaimed Judea. In the time that the Syrians had Judea, they totally trashed the sacred temple, so when the Maccabees took over, they had to clean and rededicate the temple. The candle holder is significant, because there was this special blessed oil that they used to dedicate the temple, but there was only enough to burn for one day, and since Wicks ‘n’ Sticks wasn’t around back then, they didn’t have the means of obtaining more oil. In the end, they said “fuck it” and decided that one day’s worth of oil was better than a temple filled with Syrian stank, so they did their deed and one day’s oil burned for eight crazy nights (hence the miracle).
Fast forward a few thousand years to now where Hanukkah has become the Jewish Christmas. My non-Jewish friends are often surprised when I tell them that this little candle lighting festival is actually a minor holiday. We don’t stop working or eating, and we do a prayer, but it’s a little one. In Israel and other non-U.S. countries, Hanukkah is just all about lighting some skinny candles, and maybe getting a new pair of socks.
I sat back thinking about the current status of Hanukkah as a godless orgy of consumption, where the real story, much like Christmas, gets told, but the words seem to lack any real meaning. I began to ask myself: What Would Judah (Maccabee) Do?
First of all, Judah and his Maccabee sons were hardcore, right wing Jews. They make the Israeli Chassidics (you know the guys with the long, curly sideburns and beards from hell) look like drunken fraternity brothers in a Saturday night game of naked, Crisco Twister. If Judah saw the way modern Jews were celebrating the occasion where he and his kids fought with all of their blood and soul so that a temple could be preserved, yet most of the people lighting candles don’t even go to the modern day temples, he would get pissed. I’m not talking mildly pissed, like when the annoying family member makes off-color remarks at dinner and laughs at their own jokes, I’m talking ‘cut off your head, spit down your neck pissed.’
I continue to ask, “what would Judah (Maccabee) do” about the raging consumerism. Again, he would get pissed, because after fighting a battle, he and his children had to reclaim a land that had been officially pillaged. We don’t see much pillaging nowadays, but almost everyone has had something they loved stolen from them, and we know how angry it makes us. Imagine having a whole country’s worth of valuables stolen, and you want a new Xbox 360! ‘Better you should give that money to people who really need it.’ Judah would say. Given the fact that most American Jewish kids aren’t exactly hard up for anything, I would have to agree with the warrior patriarch.
In my final examination of the holiday that Hanukkah has morphed into, I asked “what would Judah (Maccabee) do” about some other Hanukkah details such as the annoying as hell “Dreidel Song,” the fact that Hanukkah has at least 500 different spellings, and my fruitless search for a low-fat, low-calorie latke (potato pancake) recipe. At this point, I think he would look at me, shake his head, and wonder why modern day Jews are such idiots. Then he might spend the rest of the night yelling at G-d, much like Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof, asking him why he drug his children into such battle when all future Jews would be obsessed with was spinning tops, eating foods that didn’t exist during his time, and buying gifts for each other.
I can empathize with Judah Maccabee, and I have decided to spend this year’s Hanukkah exhibiting the same kind of pride in my people as the patriarch did when he waged the uphill battle against the Syrians, and to prove it, I’m definitely going to fashion those blinking blue and white lights into a Star of David on my front lawn.
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Thanksgiving: The Gluttonous Food Orgy
Of all of the holidays I dread the most, Thanksgiving is at the top of my list. There are many reasons that I don’t particularly care for the November holiday: my mom died two weeks before Thanksgiving last year, all of the stores skip the horn of plenty décor and go straight for Christmas crap, and no matter how diet conscious you attempt to be, there is no escaping the food.
We were down in Southern California this year for Thanksgiving, which was great from a weather point of view. I’ve found that the warmer you are, the less you eat, which is why people in the mid-West tend to be on the hefty side, while those on the warm, West Coast are a little svelter. It could also be that the West Coasters are vacuous and care more about their looks than their health, but that’s another story. My in-laws claimed the weather was chilly, but they shiver when it dips below 70 degrees. I was just fine, and spent nearly the entire turkey holiday without a jacket.
I still am not sure why any activity remotely related to family seems to center around food, but I’m thinking that if I had been orphaned at a young age I could have spent my teenage years doing something productive like writing poetry or publishing my own magazine instead of trying to use the pliers to zip up my jeans, while one of the Christinas measured my hips. I know most people out there can empathize, after all, is there another house you ever go into, besides your own, where the first thing you do is look in the fridge or cabinets for something to eat?
On turkey day, I began by drinking at least two cups of really strong coffee, while my husband, up at least two hours before me, was studying the ads like they were the Torah. Coffee usually takes my appetite away, and I wanted to save all of my points for the actual meal. I spent most of the day dancing the fine line between trying to help my mother-in-law prepare dinner and staying out of the kitchen to avoid diving into the cheese and crackers. I did pretty well most of the day, until as usual; my brother-in-law and his wife were their mandatory 30 minutes late holding everyone in the family room salivating while the buffet in the kitchen teased us with its fantastic scent.
While we all waited, a great crowd of family and friends was on hand to talk with. I had spent the day before coaching myself to lay off anything alcoholic, but as I said before, it was a crowd of family and friends, so wine helped me enjoy the scenario without going out of my mind. How many times can you really talk about various family members’ illnesses before you want to kill yourself?
When the actual meal did finally take place, I spied the selections carefully avoiding anything with more than two cups of sugar or fat in the recipe. Thank goodness white meat turkey is one of the best meats you could eat. I loaded up on that stuff, despite knowing that I would be in that weird Thanksgiving turkey coma a mere 55 minutes later. I skipped the stuffing and the Jell-O mold; the stuffing to avoid the fat, the Jell-O mold, because they always freaked me out just a bit, and don’t ask me why. My meal basically consisted of veggies and meat, but it was great and I didn’t feel so guilty about it.
It’s kind of strange to think about what this particular holiday evolved from. In school we learned that it was a fun feast between the Pilgrims and the Native Americans, which when I went to elementary school were still referred to as Indians. In college, the real story came out that the meal was really a ploy to give the Native Americans (which is what they were referred to by the time I went to college) diseased blankets, so they would get sick and die, and the uber-religious, hypocrite Pilgrims could take their land. It must seem so justifying now to the Native Americans that the decedents of those same swarthy, lying bastards are now in their tribal casinos every weekend losing an assload of money. What can you say, payback is truly a bitch!
After two days of turkey leftovers and dining out, I hit the food wall on Saturday night, so hard; I didn’t even eat the cookie the nice flight attendant offered me on the plane ride home. Gluttony may be a fun thing to do in one short, yearly spurt, but if you carry it on for any length of time, you begin to feel like that poor, severely obese guy on tv who had to be carried to the hospital on a horse gurney.
I’m glad Thanksgiving is over, and I can once again return to my normal eating and workout schedules. I’m also glad that I’m only a third generation American, so none of my relatives had anything to do with the raw deal those pious, English schmucks gave the Native Americans. However, I’ll still gladly support their casinos.
We were down in Southern California this year for Thanksgiving, which was great from a weather point of view. I’ve found that the warmer you are, the less you eat, which is why people in the mid-West tend to be on the hefty side, while those on the warm, West Coast are a little svelter. It could also be that the West Coasters are vacuous and care more about their looks than their health, but that’s another story. My in-laws claimed the weather was chilly, but they shiver when it dips below 70 degrees. I was just fine, and spent nearly the entire turkey holiday without a jacket.
I still am not sure why any activity remotely related to family seems to center around food, but I’m thinking that if I had been orphaned at a young age I could have spent my teenage years doing something productive like writing poetry or publishing my own magazine instead of trying to use the pliers to zip up my jeans, while one of the Christinas measured my hips. I know most people out there can empathize, after all, is there another house you ever go into, besides your own, where the first thing you do is look in the fridge or cabinets for something to eat?
On turkey day, I began by drinking at least two cups of really strong coffee, while my husband, up at least two hours before me, was studying the ads like they were the Torah. Coffee usually takes my appetite away, and I wanted to save all of my points for the actual meal. I spent most of the day dancing the fine line between trying to help my mother-in-law prepare dinner and staying out of the kitchen to avoid diving into the cheese and crackers. I did pretty well most of the day, until as usual; my brother-in-law and his wife were their mandatory 30 minutes late holding everyone in the family room salivating while the buffet in the kitchen teased us with its fantastic scent.
While we all waited, a great crowd of family and friends was on hand to talk with. I had spent the day before coaching myself to lay off anything alcoholic, but as I said before, it was a crowd of family and friends, so wine helped me enjoy the scenario without going out of my mind. How many times can you really talk about various family members’ illnesses before you want to kill yourself?
When the actual meal did finally take place, I spied the selections carefully avoiding anything with more than two cups of sugar or fat in the recipe. Thank goodness white meat turkey is one of the best meats you could eat. I loaded up on that stuff, despite knowing that I would be in that weird Thanksgiving turkey coma a mere 55 minutes later. I skipped the stuffing and the Jell-O mold; the stuffing to avoid the fat, the Jell-O mold, because they always freaked me out just a bit, and don’t ask me why. My meal basically consisted of veggies and meat, but it was great and I didn’t feel so guilty about it.
It’s kind of strange to think about what this particular holiday evolved from. In school we learned that it was a fun feast between the Pilgrims and the Native Americans, which when I went to elementary school were still referred to as Indians. In college, the real story came out that the meal was really a ploy to give the Native Americans (which is what they were referred to by the time I went to college) diseased blankets, so they would get sick and die, and the uber-religious, hypocrite Pilgrims could take their land. It must seem so justifying now to the Native Americans that the decedents of those same swarthy, lying bastards are now in their tribal casinos every weekend losing an assload of money. What can you say, payback is truly a bitch!
After two days of turkey leftovers and dining out, I hit the food wall on Saturday night, so hard; I didn’t even eat the cookie the nice flight attendant offered me on the plane ride home. Gluttony may be a fun thing to do in one short, yearly spurt, but if you carry it on for any length of time, you begin to feel like that poor, severely obese guy on tv who had to be carried to the hospital on a horse gurney.
I’m glad Thanksgiving is over, and I can once again return to my normal eating and workout schedules. I’m also glad that I’m only a third generation American, so none of my relatives had anything to do with the raw deal those pious, English schmucks gave the Native Americans. However, I’ll still gladly support their casinos.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Greener on the Other Side?
My husband’s favorite expression, mostly when I’m bitching about him and the kid, is “the grass is always greener on the other side.” He says this snidely, like I’m going to stop mid-bitch and realize that despite the fact that he is on the computer looking up shit for his business while Rachael’s wet diaper is sagging on the floor leaving puddles on the carpet, I have it good and should appreciate his inaction. Of course this never works, and I complete the bitching flawlessly.
Today, his “greener on the other side” theory got put to the test. I sent him and the girl to the airport this afternoon to fly a day ahead of me to California for the big family Thanksgiving. I felt a surge of elation as I dropped them off realizing that, for the first time since Rachael’s birth, I was on my own for 24 hours. It felt like I was single again, except when I went to the can and ended up staring at the faded, tiny stretch marks on my belly. I was on my own for an entire day to do as I pleased.
I contemplated all of the ways I could spend the next 24 hours. First off, I would have to finish my workday at The Facility. Thankfully, my supervisor and boss took off early, so I did too. Then I was off to fulfill an important task: getting my nails done. I ended up in downtown Renton early, so I popped over to get gas and a slice of goopy, cheese pizza. This is my guilty pleasure when I have enough points available to indulge.
I spent a quick hour in the nail salon amid the flurry of Vietnamese-speaking nail techs and children running excitedly through the tiny shop. For a moment I sat in my car thinking I should call and check in, but then I remembered that I was free for the night, and accountable to no one.
I blew off my Jewish studies class, which means I’m on lox and bagel restriction for at least a month, and headed to the mall. Although I knew there would be Christmas music blaring as far as the ear could hear, and that I was never that fond of shopping, I loved the idea of going somewhere and not having a time restriction.
I spent two hours perusing the shops, and getting pissed that I’m down 30 pounds and the new fashion seeping into all the stores like toxic mold is Boho. I don’t want to dress like a hippie. I don’t want to dress like an earthy hippie, a rich hippie, or a stylish hippie, therefore I can only hope the style changes within the next ten pound loss, because I’m not dressing like a fucking hippie. The sad thing is that the Boho look has creeped into everything: jewelry, purses, and shoes. It really sucks!
The positive thing that came out of my mall experience was that I learned I’m down another size, which is good especially since I’ve hit a weight loss plateau for the last two weeks, and Thanksgiving is the day after tomorrow.
Jeff finally called to check in with me while his mother gave Rachael a bath. He was probably going to get together with one of his more interesting friends tonight, and I was off to pick up some sushi. The rest of my evening will be spent folding laundry, lounging while I watch bad tv, working out during Law & Order: SVU, and staying up until the wee hours of the night playing a mindless, computer game. Best of all, I won’t have anyone asking me when I’m coming to bed, or why I’m playing ridiculous computer games instead of finishing my book.
I do miss my little munchkin. She was in a happy mood today, and her smile is a bit addictive, but I can forego a sloppy, toddler kiss until tomorrow afternoon. Although I have to work tomorrow, I get to leave early, and enjoy a solo flight for the first time in three years. I get to sit down in an aisle seat and read a magazine. Oh, the small things in life we find ourselves grateful for.
The next few days will be spent in sunny California, which will be a nice break from the freezing cold fog that has consumed Seattle. The only downside will be the natural drama that seems to happen every time anyone group of loosely related people come together, do some drinking, and attempt to do something stupid like enjoy a holiday. Nobody can ever seem to do the Cleaver Family thing properly, but at least I’ll be in the right mindset. The grass may not be greener on the other side in the long run, but I’m happy to spend a day or two on the lawn.
Today, his “greener on the other side” theory got put to the test. I sent him and the girl to the airport this afternoon to fly a day ahead of me to California for the big family Thanksgiving. I felt a surge of elation as I dropped them off realizing that, for the first time since Rachael’s birth, I was on my own for 24 hours. It felt like I was single again, except when I went to the can and ended up staring at the faded, tiny stretch marks on my belly. I was on my own for an entire day to do as I pleased.
I contemplated all of the ways I could spend the next 24 hours. First off, I would have to finish my workday at The Facility. Thankfully, my supervisor and boss took off early, so I did too. Then I was off to fulfill an important task: getting my nails done. I ended up in downtown Renton early, so I popped over to get gas and a slice of goopy, cheese pizza. This is my guilty pleasure when I have enough points available to indulge.
I spent a quick hour in the nail salon amid the flurry of Vietnamese-speaking nail techs and children running excitedly through the tiny shop. For a moment I sat in my car thinking I should call and check in, but then I remembered that I was free for the night, and accountable to no one.
I blew off my Jewish studies class, which means I’m on lox and bagel restriction for at least a month, and headed to the mall. Although I knew there would be Christmas music blaring as far as the ear could hear, and that I was never that fond of shopping, I loved the idea of going somewhere and not having a time restriction.
I spent two hours perusing the shops, and getting pissed that I’m down 30 pounds and the new fashion seeping into all the stores like toxic mold is Boho. I don’t want to dress like a hippie. I don’t want to dress like an earthy hippie, a rich hippie, or a stylish hippie, therefore I can only hope the style changes within the next ten pound loss, because I’m not dressing like a fucking hippie. The sad thing is that the Boho look has creeped into everything: jewelry, purses, and shoes. It really sucks!
The positive thing that came out of my mall experience was that I learned I’m down another size, which is good especially since I’ve hit a weight loss plateau for the last two weeks, and Thanksgiving is the day after tomorrow.
Jeff finally called to check in with me while his mother gave Rachael a bath. He was probably going to get together with one of his more interesting friends tonight, and I was off to pick up some sushi. The rest of my evening will be spent folding laundry, lounging while I watch bad tv, working out during Law & Order: SVU, and staying up until the wee hours of the night playing a mindless, computer game. Best of all, I won’t have anyone asking me when I’m coming to bed, or why I’m playing ridiculous computer games instead of finishing my book.
I do miss my little munchkin. She was in a happy mood today, and her smile is a bit addictive, but I can forego a sloppy, toddler kiss until tomorrow afternoon. Although I have to work tomorrow, I get to leave early, and enjoy a solo flight for the first time in three years. I get to sit down in an aisle seat and read a magazine. Oh, the small things in life we find ourselves grateful for.
The next few days will be spent in sunny California, which will be a nice break from the freezing cold fog that has consumed Seattle. The only downside will be the natural drama that seems to happen every time anyone group of loosely related people come together, do some drinking, and attempt to do something stupid like enjoy a holiday. Nobody can ever seem to do the Cleaver Family thing properly, but at least I’ll be in the right mindset. The grass may not be greener on the other side in the long run, but I’m happy to spend a day or two on the lawn.
Sunday, November 20, 2005
The Music of the Christmas Season
I can’t tell you how many years I’ve hated Christmas music. It’s one of those annoying things that you don’t think about until one day, usually as early as October, you are in a store, and there it is: “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas…” All that runs through my head at that point is; oh fuck, it’s that time of year again!
I know most will think my loathing of the Christmas season is because I’m Jewish, but hopefully you are more original, and hate idiots who go for the obvious. I’ve never liked Christmas. As a kid, when the big reward in our house was putting the star on the top of the Christmas tree, I would retire to my room and let my sister or brother have the honor. Putting up the tree was always a big pain in the ass. I grew up in a completely non-religious household, because my stepdad didn’t want to play “G-d’s ballgame,” and my mom was one of those freaky, hippie types that were way more “spiritual” than religious. We did the Christmas morning with all the presents thing, and the tree, but I was never into it.
As I got older, I kind of grew to resent Christmas, because as with anything in this country, the soul behind the true meaning gets thrown away in favor of blatant, rampant commercialism. My mother’s birthday was on October 26th, and one year I went out in the middle of the Halloween month only to be confronted by tons of faux pine trees and big, red, velvet bows. I complained to the store manager, but he said he got the orders to display the Christmas shit the first week of October.
Thank goodness for the internet! With the invention of this little shopping paradise, I’m able to avoid the “holiday shopping rush” completely. It’s not that I don’t love sales or buying for others, in fact I would rather buy a complete stranger a gift than have to shop for jeans for my fat ass; I just hate the Christmas music. Is it a requirement that those songs be annoying? Has anyone written a cool Christmas song only to be told by the powers that be that they can’t release it, because the chorus just doesn’t grate on someone’s nerves quite the same way as “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree”? I love Bing Crosby’s voice, but if I have to hear him sing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” for the 500th time, I’m going to go completely ape shit.
Hands down, the only Christmas song I don’t feel down right wretched about hearing is Elvis’ “Blue Christmas”. That man can sing anything, and thankfully, his Christmas song is starting to become popular, so if I have to brave a store, I can count on hearing it at least once.
I don’t mind classical or musak, give me all of the Christmas elevator you’ve got, but please keep Christina, Brittney, and Mariah’s versions of “our holiday favorites” out of my aural range. They don’t add anything to these tunes, except more annoyance, and since most stores probably have a loop of Christmas songs that get updated about every ten years, there’s no point in adding any of these pop divas, because these broads don’t have a combined ten years left in their careers.
Unfortunately, I don’t have a good alternative to Christmas music to offer the general public. Adam Sandler did a bang-up job on putting out the “Hanukkah Song,” and I appreciate his ambition in releasing a new and updated version of it each year, but one can only listen to it twice a day without going insane. Our other Jewish holiday song is the “Dreidel Song,” which is about as bad as an Ashley and Jessica Simpson duet of “Here Comes Santa Claus.” As for Kwanza or Diwali (the Hindu, end of the year holiday), I’ve never heard any of those holidays’ theme music, so if they have something catchy and nice, they should step forward and offer it up. Our society is so freaky about being P.C. that I’m sure the more “cultural” holiday music would manage to make its way into a few of the average malls’ holiday music lexicon before some conservative, white guy pitched a fit.
In a few weeks, I’ll host the hors d’oeuvres part of the Neighborhood Progressive Dinner, and everyone will just have to be satisfied with some good ol’ classical. Maybe, if I’m in a good mood, I’ll whip out the London Royal Symphony’s version of The Nutcracker. Otherwise, I’ll take it upon myself to enlighten our multicultural, non-Jewish neighborhood dwellers with an hour of Israeli music, while running 8 Crazy Nights on a constant loop on the tv up in the family room. Either way, you can be damn sure “Let It Snow” and “O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree” will be no where in sight.
I know most will think my loathing of the Christmas season is because I’m Jewish, but hopefully you are more original, and hate idiots who go for the obvious. I’ve never liked Christmas. As a kid, when the big reward in our house was putting the star on the top of the Christmas tree, I would retire to my room and let my sister or brother have the honor. Putting up the tree was always a big pain in the ass. I grew up in a completely non-religious household, because my stepdad didn’t want to play “G-d’s ballgame,” and my mom was one of those freaky, hippie types that were way more “spiritual” than religious. We did the Christmas morning with all the presents thing, and the tree, but I was never into it.
As I got older, I kind of grew to resent Christmas, because as with anything in this country, the soul behind the true meaning gets thrown away in favor of blatant, rampant commercialism. My mother’s birthday was on October 26th, and one year I went out in the middle of the Halloween month only to be confronted by tons of faux pine trees and big, red, velvet bows. I complained to the store manager, but he said he got the orders to display the Christmas shit the first week of October.
Thank goodness for the internet! With the invention of this little shopping paradise, I’m able to avoid the “holiday shopping rush” completely. It’s not that I don’t love sales or buying for others, in fact I would rather buy a complete stranger a gift than have to shop for jeans for my fat ass; I just hate the Christmas music. Is it a requirement that those songs be annoying? Has anyone written a cool Christmas song only to be told by the powers that be that they can’t release it, because the chorus just doesn’t grate on someone’s nerves quite the same way as “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree”? I love Bing Crosby’s voice, but if I have to hear him sing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” for the 500th time, I’m going to go completely ape shit.
Hands down, the only Christmas song I don’t feel down right wretched about hearing is Elvis’ “Blue Christmas”. That man can sing anything, and thankfully, his Christmas song is starting to become popular, so if I have to brave a store, I can count on hearing it at least once.
I don’t mind classical or musak, give me all of the Christmas elevator you’ve got, but please keep Christina, Brittney, and Mariah’s versions of “our holiday favorites” out of my aural range. They don’t add anything to these tunes, except more annoyance, and since most stores probably have a loop of Christmas songs that get updated about every ten years, there’s no point in adding any of these pop divas, because these broads don’t have a combined ten years left in their careers.
Unfortunately, I don’t have a good alternative to Christmas music to offer the general public. Adam Sandler did a bang-up job on putting out the “Hanukkah Song,” and I appreciate his ambition in releasing a new and updated version of it each year, but one can only listen to it twice a day without going insane. Our other Jewish holiday song is the “Dreidel Song,” which is about as bad as an Ashley and Jessica Simpson duet of “Here Comes Santa Claus.” As for Kwanza or Diwali (the Hindu, end of the year holiday), I’ve never heard any of those holidays’ theme music, so if they have something catchy and nice, they should step forward and offer it up. Our society is so freaky about being P.C. that I’m sure the more “cultural” holiday music would manage to make its way into a few of the average malls’ holiday music lexicon before some conservative, white guy pitched a fit.
In a few weeks, I’ll host the hors d’oeuvres part of the Neighborhood Progressive Dinner, and everyone will just have to be satisfied with some good ol’ classical. Maybe, if I’m in a good mood, I’ll whip out the London Royal Symphony’s version of The Nutcracker. Otherwise, I’ll take it upon myself to enlighten our multicultural, non-Jewish neighborhood dwellers with an hour of Israeli music, while running 8 Crazy Nights on a constant loop on the tv up in the family room. Either way, you can be damn sure “Let It Snow” and “O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree” will be no where in sight.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Bigger, Faster, Better, More
I’m continually fascinated by our somewhat fucked up society. Like a demanding spouse or a nagging parent, nothing is ever good enough for us. In the ‘70s, the single family home was too small, and the sprawling rambler came along. In the ‘80s, regular models were no longer good enough, you had to have supermodels. In the ‘90s, you couldn’t just be pissed off; your life had to be completely angst-ridden, and now in the new millennium, although we bitch a lot, bigger is definitely better.
We all know that guy who will kvetch to no end about paying $120 every time he has to fill up his Suburban, and to be politically correct, he gives a great cock ‘n’ bull story about getting rid of it as soon as he can pull together enough scratch for a hybrid, but he’s full of shit and we all know it. The fact is, he loves the feeling of towering over the other cars in his way, and having two tons of steel at his control. Sure, he gets that horrible sense of foreboding as the gas gauge nears the “E”, but he will never give up his manly ride for something more efficient.
Less obvious to the naked eye is the fact that the “bigger, faster, better, more” philosophy has spilled over into the idea of family. A couple of years ago, the family movie of the season was Cheaper by the Dozen. The story of a nice, mid-Western couple who longs for the pitter-patter of a whole herd of feet, and wind up with a dozen adorable kids. He’s a football coach, she’s a successful author, and chaos does ensue, but when it’s caused by someone as cute as Hillary Duff, it makes for a great movie.
This year, a dozen wasn’t enough. I have been inundated with previews and movie posters about a man with eight kids who gets into a relationship with a woman with ten kids, it’s called Yours, Mine, and Ours, and it seems ridiculous. First off, after carrying and giving birth to ten kids, no woman is going to be that thin, unless she’s married to a plastic surgeon and has a surrogate on call. Secondly, I’m wondering when the movie about the people with 30 kids is going to be out. Perhaps it will be 2008, and will star Julia Roberts as a woman who just haphazardly gives birth to sets of triplets, and Jude Law could play a very fertile man whose seed seems to only harvest twins.
Despite the concept of the Brady Bunch on crack, its fiction, and even more, it’s Hollywood where reality doesn’t exist, and all reason is thrown out the window if there’s a chance to make a buck and sell merchandising rights for Happy Meal toys. Nothing like this multiple kid conundrum could ever really happen in our bigger, faster, better, more society, right? Think again; an Arkansas family who just had #16 and isn’t opposed to adding a few more new faces to their enormous brood. They have been featured on CNN, Primetime Live, and are the subject of a Discovery Health Channel special.
Apparently, the mother (a uterus with a bad ‘80s haircut) home schools all of the children, and laughs about spending $2,000 a month on groceries. They proudly bear bumper stickers on their minivan praising George W. Bush, and to make everything a little more confusing have made all their kids’ names start with the letter “J”. I, personally, don’t want to be there when the kids are behaving like perfect publicity robots, I want to be there when the mommy is sick of never having sleep or a moment to herself, and loses it locking all of the kids in the shed. I want to see the look on the dad’s face when he has to fain happiness as his wife tells him for the 17th time that she’s pregnant, which means they will be great grandparents before they ever have the opportunity to just be a couple again.
The most disturbing part of this “bigger family is a better family” is the fact that it only applies to certain families. If the family is a bit chaotic, cute, and Caucasian, everything is okay and it makes for a great, Hollywood movie. However, if you were to put Ice Cube and Jada Pinkett Smith in the lead roles, then I think your average American moviegoer’s comments would change rapidly. I know several wonderful Mexican families from my childhood in Idaho that were all about double digit kids, and they were called a “menace” and “irresponsible.”
Bigger, faster, better, more may work when it comes to cars, video games, and devices to store illegally downloaded music on, but when it comes to the good ol’ American family, you’d better leave it at two and a half kids and a dog. After all, in this society, the family becomes less appealing when the father looks more like George Lopez than Dennis Quaid and the mother is Rosario Dawson, not Rene Russo.
We all know that guy who will kvetch to no end about paying $120 every time he has to fill up his Suburban, and to be politically correct, he gives a great cock ‘n’ bull story about getting rid of it as soon as he can pull together enough scratch for a hybrid, but he’s full of shit and we all know it. The fact is, he loves the feeling of towering over the other cars in his way, and having two tons of steel at his control. Sure, he gets that horrible sense of foreboding as the gas gauge nears the “E”, but he will never give up his manly ride for something more efficient.
Less obvious to the naked eye is the fact that the “bigger, faster, better, more” philosophy has spilled over into the idea of family. A couple of years ago, the family movie of the season was Cheaper by the Dozen. The story of a nice, mid-Western couple who longs for the pitter-patter of a whole herd of feet, and wind up with a dozen adorable kids. He’s a football coach, she’s a successful author, and chaos does ensue, but when it’s caused by someone as cute as Hillary Duff, it makes for a great movie.
This year, a dozen wasn’t enough. I have been inundated with previews and movie posters about a man with eight kids who gets into a relationship with a woman with ten kids, it’s called Yours, Mine, and Ours, and it seems ridiculous. First off, after carrying and giving birth to ten kids, no woman is going to be that thin, unless she’s married to a plastic surgeon and has a surrogate on call. Secondly, I’m wondering when the movie about the people with 30 kids is going to be out. Perhaps it will be 2008, and will star Julia Roberts as a woman who just haphazardly gives birth to sets of triplets, and Jude Law could play a very fertile man whose seed seems to only harvest twins.
Despite the concept of the Brady Bunch on crack, its fiction, and even more, it’s Hollywood where reality doesn’t exist, and all reason is thrown out the window if there’s a chance to make a buck and sell merchandising rights for Happy Meal toys. Nothing like this multiple kid conundrum could ever really happen in our bigger, faster, better, more society, right? Think again; an Arkansas family who just had #16 and isn’t opposed to adding a few more new faces to their enormous brood. They have been featured on CNN, Primetime Live, and are the subject of a Discovery Health Channel special.
Apparently, the mother (a uterus with a bad ‘80s haircut) home schools all of the children, and laughs about spending $2,000 a month on groceries. They proudly bear bumper stickers on their minivan praising George W. Bush, and to make everything a little more confusing have made all their kids’ names start with the letter “J”. I, personally, don’t want to be there when the kids are behaving like perfect publicity robots, I want to be there when the mommy is sick of never having sleep or a moment to herself, and loses it locking all of the kids in the shed. I want to see the look on the dad’s face when he has to fain happiness as his wife tells him for the 17th time that she’s pregnant, which means they will be great grandparents before they ever have the opportunity to just be a couple again.
The most disturbing part of this “bigger family is a better family” is the fact that it only applies to certain families. If the family is a bit chaotic, cute, and Caucasian, everything is okay and it makes for a great, Hollywood movie. However, if you were to put Ice Cube and Jada Pinkett Smith in the lead roles, then I think your average American moviegoer’s comments would change rapidly. I know several wonderful Mexican families from my childhood in Idaho that were all about double digit kids, and they were called a “menace” and “irresponsible.”
Bigger, faster, better, more may work when it comes to cars, video games, and devices to store illegally downloaded music on, but when it comes to the good ol’ American family, you’d better leave it at two and a half kids and a dog. After all, in this society, the family becomes less appealing when the father looks more like George Lopez than Dennis Quaid and the mother is Rosario Dawson, not Rene Russo.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Whores Deserve Cancer
Did you ever hear something on television that was so outrageous it rendered you mute? This happened to me the other day, and I can tell you that it isn’t often that I’m stricken speechless. I was flipping through the channels, innocently enough, when I came across the wonderful news that there had been a bonafide cure developed for cervical cancer. Each year over 10,000 women in the U.S. and hundreds of thousands of women worldwide are stricken with this painful form of cancer. Now that there’s a vaccine, all is well…now for the dumbfounding part.
Apparently a conservative Christian group is fighting the release of the vaccine in the U.S., because they believe it will encourage women to be more sexually active. I guess they figure that the women who contract cervical cancer are slutting around, and end up with a more than normal amount of nastiness in the ‘gina region. Therefore, cervical cancer is just G-d’s way of punishing them for being women of lowly virtue, and if given the vaccine, they would be cured and would continue their loose lifestyle.
Two and a half minutes into this report, the speechlessness had left me, and I was spinning around the family room like the Tasmanian Devil stuck in Seattle rush hour traffic. Beyond pissed doesn’t even begin to describe my mood. Of all of the ridiculous fucking things that I’ve heard in my life, the idea that women should be allowed to painfully suffer and die of cancer, because they weren’t virgins when they got married made me really pro-nuclear at that point.
What continues to piss me off, days after watching this jaw-dropping news report, is the plain ignorance of the Christian extremist right. I realize that the women inflicted with the cancer will certainly be curtailing their sexual practices, but I doubt the women who receive the life-saving vaccine will change the course they are currently on. Also, what about the woman who was a virgin when she got married, and spent her life being faithful to her husband, yet contracted the disease, because he didn’t return the monogamy? Maybe these particular Christians, instead of banning the vaccine, should ask the government to approve a Whore Review Board.
Women afflicted with cervical cancer could go before all of the white, male, Christian ministers, and if she was found to have a chaste life, would be able to receive the vaccine as long as she signed a special contract agreeing to continue her virtuous lifestyle. If she violated the contract, she would immediately be injected with a quicker, more deadlier form of cancer as her atonement.
I may not be a Christian, but I have Christians in my family, and growing up in this American society has naturally given me some exposure to the teachings of Jesus. With the limited amount of information I know regarding the J man, I can safely say that I don’t think he would have approved of letting women suffer from cancer. I also think that other, more reasonable Christians should have these idiots who claim to represent them censored or excommunicated.
When I look at these bloated, Caucasian, baby boomer males talking about letting women suffer from cancer, images of darker skinned, Afghani males come to mind. Yes, that’s right, I am comparing the leaders of the Christian right who want to ban a cancer cure with the Taliban, because the only difference between the two is the Christians let their wives shop at JC Penney while the Taliban wives are cruising the sales racks at Abdullah’s Burqa Hut.
Anytime you have an unreasonable group of zealots who are willing to let innocent people suffer in order to advance their religious agenda, it’s just wrong, oppressive, and theocratic. I just thank my lucky stars that Bush is finally falling flat on his ass in the polls, and given the most recent elections, people in this country are beginning to come to their senses and realize that just because you don’t like an aggressive amount of sex on t.v. doesn’t mean that you believe women shouldn’t be given a lifesaving vaccine.
I’m not all that worried that the drug won’t be approved by the FDA, because if there’s one thing our government loves more than moral values, it’s money, and Merck is championing this vaccine, and they have a lot of money. Thankfully, by this time next year all of us whores will be eligible to receive the vaccine for cervical cancer, and maybe we won’t have to go before the review board.
Apparently a conservative Christian group is fighting the release of the vaccine in the U.S., because they believe it will encourage women to be more sexually active. I guess they figure that the women who contract cervical cancer are slutting around, and end up with a more than normal amount of nastiness in the ‘gina region. Therefore, cervical cancer is just G-d’s way of punishing them for being women of lowly virtue, and if given the vaccine, they would be cured and would continue their loose lifestyle.
Two and a half minutes into this report, the speechlessness had left me, and I was spinning around the family room like the Tasmanian Devil stuck in Seattle rush hour traffic. Beyond pissed doesn’t even begin to describe my mood. Of all of the ridiculous fucking things that I’ve heard in my life, the idea that women should be allowed to painfully suffer and die of cancer, because they weren’t virgins when they got married made me really pro-nuclear at that point.
What continues to piss me off, days after watching this jaw-dropping news report, is the plain ignorance of the Christian extremist right. I realize that the women inflicted with the cancer will certainly be curtailing their sexual practices, but I doubt the women who receive the life-saving vaccine will change the course they are currently on. Also, what about the woman who was a virgin when she got married, and spent her life being faithful to her husband, yet contracted the disease, because he didn’t return the monogamy? Maybe these particular Christians, instead of banning the vaccine, should ask the government to approve a Whore Review Board.
Women afflicted with cervical cancer could go before all of the white, male, Christian ministers, and if she was found to have a chaste life, would be able to receive the vaccine as long as she signed a special contract agreeing to continue her virtuous lifestyle. If she violated the contract, she would immediately be injected with a quicker, more deadlier form of cancer as her atonement.
I may not be a Christian, but I have Christians in my family, and growing up in this American society has naturally given me some exposure to the teachings of Jesus. With the limited amount of information I know regarding the J man, I can safely say that I don’t think he would have approved of letting women suffer from cancer. I also think that other, more reasonable Christians should have these idiots who claim to represent them censored or excommunicated.
When I look at these bloated, Caucasian, baby boomer males talking about letting women suffer from cancer, images of darker skinned, Afghani males come to mind. Yes, that’s right, I am comparing the leaders of the Christian right who want to ban a cancer cure with the Taliban, because the only difference between the two is the Christians let their wives shop at JC Penney while the Taliban wives are cruising the sales racks at Abdullah’s Burqa Hut.
Anytime you have an unreasonable group of zealots who are willing to let innocent people suffer in order to advance their religious agenda, it’s just wrong, oppressive, and theocratic. I just thank my lucky stars that Bush is finally falling flat on his ass in the polls, and given the most recent elections, people in this country are beginning to come to their senses and realize that just because you don’t like an aggressive amount of sex on t.v. doesn’t mean that you believe women shouldn’t be given a lifesaving vaccine.
I’m not all that worried that the drug won’t be approved by the FDA, because if there’s one thing our government loves more than moral values, it’s money, and Merck is championing this vaccine, and they have a lot of money. Thankfully, by this time next year all of us whores will be eligible to receive the vaccine for cervical cancer, and maybe we won’t have to go before the review board.
Friday, November 11, 2005
Airborne Cocktails and TB
I grew up in a household that was quite hypocritical when it came to health issues. My stepfather was inflicted with a genetic lung disorder that made him terminally ill at a young age, until he was able to have a double lung transplant ten years ago. Some of the rules in our house barred the use of Aquanet indoors, and given the hairstyle I achieved through enormous amounts of the toxic spray, should have extended the ban to include the town I lived in. We adopted disposable paper cups as our vessel of rinse when we brushed our teeth, and were asked to apply perfume at school. We were very careful and health conscious when it came to all issues of the lungs.
For everything else, we were miserable failures. Eating disorders, depression, low blood pressure, and a serious lack of exercise riddled the house of my youth, so when I went to college, I had a lot of catching up to do. I took nutrition and health classes, and adopted a rigorous exercise regimen that led me into the arena of bodybuilding for awhile.
I have always been a relatively healthy person, but since my daughter has come into the picture, I have experienced an irrational number of colds, flu bugs, and other weird bouts of ickiness. This shouldn’t be a shock since kids are basically walking disease boxes in Children’s Place clothing, especially those who attend daycare. They have no concept of cleanliness and think nothing of putting some other kid’s possessions in their mouth.
My husband is one of those paranoid hand washing people, and thankfully, he has passed this obsession on to my daughter, which does help the illness situation, but we still get the sick bugs running through the house.
Lately, I’ve been experiencing feelings of yuckiness, and no, I’m not pregnant. Since I’m not one who runs to the doctor at the drop of a hat, I have instead chose to dose myself with a nearly nightly cocktail of two Airborne tablets with a side of 1,000 mg of vitamin C and a multi. It has helped my yucky feeling, but it still makes me wonder if I’m one step away from starting the pandemic flu.
Since achieving Mommy status, I have been far more paranoid regarding health issues, which is normal for a woman, particularly a Jewish woman. I’ve done all the reading up on the Avian flu, and I am prepared to wall myself and my family up in my house until it passes. Rachael is current on all of her vaccinations, and whether my husband fears needles or not, we are all getting flu shots this year!
Lately serious health issues, aside from the pandemic flu, haven’t crossed my mind, until yesterday. As an employee of The Facility, I was required to get a skin test for tuberculosis. Okay, if you have half a brain, you’ve figured out that I work for some sort of health provider, but legally I can’t say which one, so don’t ask. Anyways, I went in faithfully and had a pea sized amount of TB injected into my arm on Monday. Tuesday, I had a red mark the size of a dime. Wednesday, it was the size of a nickel and slightly itchy. Thursday, when the nurse looked at it, she was sure I had a positive skin test. That’s right, all of my Airborne and vitamin cocktails, a regular workout schedule, and the absence of red meat from my diet and I’m taken out by something as relevant to our time as polio or shingles.
Thankfully, my bump didn’t measure up. In the world of the TB skin test a ten millimeter bump is a positive measure, I had a seven. I have to go back in for a follow up skin test next week. If it turns out positive, then comes the chest x-ray along with blood and urine tests. I went to the internet right away, and discovered that TB is completely curable. If any further tests prove that I have TB bacteria present in my body, I can begin a three month run of antibiotics that will wipe it away.
It just seems kind of strange that something like this could appear at this point in my life. I haven’t been around any coughers lately, traveled to Asia, Eastern Europe or South America for at least four years, and aside from a potentially positive skin test, I’m extremely healthy. It’s perplexing, and has now made me a bit of a nervous wreck.
I guess all I can do now is wait for the follow up test, which won’t give results until next Thursday; what a wonderful way to begin a Thanksgiving vacation! At least I’m not contagious. You have to be coughing in order to be contagious, so for now, I’m just walking around as a potential TB carrier. Perhaps I’ll try three Airborne tablets tonight; after all, it couldn’t hurt.
For everything else, we were miserable failures. Eating disorders, depression, low blood pressure, and a serious lack of exercise riddled the house of my youth, so when I went to college, I had a lot of catching up to do. I took nutrition and health classes, and adopted a rigorous exercise regimen that led me into the arena of bodybuilding for awhile.
I have always been a relatively healthy person, but since my daughter has come into the picture, I have experienced an irrational number of colds, flu bugs, and other weird bouts of ickiness. This shouldn’t be a shock since kids are basically walking disease boxes in Children’s Place clothing, especially those who attend daycare. They have no concept of cleanliness and think nothing of putting some other kid’s possessions in their mouth.
My husband is one of those paranoid hand washing people, and thankfully, he has passed this obsession on to my daughter, which does help the illness situation, but we still get the sick bugs running through the house.
Lately, I’ve been experiencing feelings of yuckiness, and no, I’m not pregnant. Since I’m not one who runs to the doctor at the drop of a hat, I have instead chose to dose myself with a nearly nightly cocktail of two Airborne tablets with a side of 1,000 mg of vitamin C and a multi. It has helped my yucky feeling, but it still makes me wonder if I’m one step away from starting the pandemic flu.
Since achieving Mommy status, I have been far more paranoid regarding health issues, which is normal for a woman, particularly a Jewish woman. I’ve done all the reading up on the Avian flu, and I am prepared to wall myself and my family up in my house until it passes. Rachael is current on all of her vaccinations, and whether my husband fears needles or not, we are all getting flu shots this year!
Lately serious health issues, aside from the pandemic flu, haven’t crossed my mind, until yesterday. As an employee of The Facility, I was required to get a skin test for tuberculosis. Okay, if you have half a brain, you’ve figured out that I work for some sort of health provider, but legally I can’t say which one, so don’t ask. Anyways, I went in faithfully and had a pea sized amount of TB injected into my arm on Monday. Tuesday, I had a red mark the size of a dime. Wednesday, it was the size of a nickel and slightly itchy. Thursday, when the nurse looked at it, she was sure I had a positive skin test. That’s right, all of my Airborne and vitamin cocktails, a regular workout schedule, and the absence of red meat from my diet and I’m taken out by something as relevant to our time as polio or shingles.
Thankfully, my bump didn’t measure up. In the world of the TB skin test a ten millimeter bump is a positive measure, I had a seven. I have to go back in for a follow up skin test next week. If it turns out positive, then comes the chest x-ray along with blood and urine tests. I went to the internet right away, and discovered that TB is completely curable. If any further tests prove that I have TB bacteria present in my body, I can begin a three month run of antibiotics that will wipe it away.
It just seems kind of strange that something like this could appear at this point in my life. I haven’t been around any coughers lately, traveled to Asia, Eastern Europe or South America for at least four years, and aside from a potentially positive skin test, I’m extremely healthy. It’s perplexing, and has now made me a bit of a nervous wreck.
I guess all I can do now is wait for the follow up test, which won’t give results until next Thursday; what a wonderful way to begin a Thanksgiving vacation! At least I’m not contagious. You have to be coughing in order to be contagious, so for now, I’m just walking around as a potential TB carrier. Perhaps I’ll try three Airborne tablets tonight; after all, it couldn’t hurt.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
People Who Need to Be Slapped
There are a whole lot of people out there who need a good bitch slapping. Corrupt politicians, bigots, blonde heiresses, and a president or two could all use a hard one upside the head. These are the obvious recipients. When we see them our hand kind of tingles, but there is limited access to these folks, so instead we just cringe when we see them and rely on Jon Stewart and Bill Mahr to bash them regularly on cable tv.
Most people in my day-to-day life are lovely. I am pleased to be surrounded by a good group of friends, co-workers, and acquaintances. Sure, every now and again I have to run like hell to the bookstore to avoid wanting to physically injure the man and child I live with, but that’s what happens when three individuals with unique and strong personalities decide to reside in the same house.
There are a select few people in my life right now that I don’t see all that often, but when I do see them, piss me off to no end. These are the people who I’m forced to deal with from time to time, and have to be polite to for the sake of making the occasional time I spend with them less of a hell, and no, they aren’t all relatives or in-laws.
One of the people whose head I’d like to go upside is a woman who attends the same class I do on Tuesday night. For the past few months I’ve been taking a Jewish studies course. Most of the people in the class are great. They are wonderful, thinking people with easy-going personalities who are always willing to make small talk and greet you with a smile, then there’s this bitch. Orthodox Jews who observe the Sabbath, and adhere to the laws of Jewish living are called frum. Sometimes, the women, who often dress modestly covering their hair, are crudely referred to, by less observant Jews, as frummies. I don’t know if the chick that annoys the hell out of me in my haven of Jewish study and thinking is going for the award of “Frummy of the Year,” but she’s pissing me off in the process.
Usually, I approach people who try way too hard to fit in with pity. I mean, how pathetic is your life when you have to go out of your way to be something in order to get acceptance. If you were meant to fit in with a group or be a certain way, it would just come organically and with little effort. This woman has crossed over from pity case to annoying, and the very tone of her voice makes me want to slap her a good one.
She was semi-polite to me until the night I walked into class wearing slacks. She kind of gave me a pissy look and went out of her way, in a very clownish and animated gesture, to hug another (more observant) Jewish woman who walked in the room behind me. I realize I may not be the fabulous fashionista I would like to be, and I don’t dislike this woman, because she doesn’t like my pants, I could give a shit less about her critique of my personal style. What chews my cheese is that she was judging me, and who the fuck is she to judge me!
It’s bad enough that I have to watch her kiss ass to every rabbi who comes in to teach, or that I have to stand in line to ask a relevant question about the lesson, because she wants the rabbi to know that she is inviting his wife over for coffee, to be judged by a woman who pairs Nikes with a long jean skirt, frumpy sweater, and a poly-cotton blended beret is just too much.
All of my experiences with members of the Orthodox Jewish community have been wonderful, so I can’t hold one bad seed against them, and I wouldn’t encourage anyone else to either. Unfortunately, assholes reside in every group and every circumstance.
There are those waitresses with chips on their shoulders who believe that what they do isn’t merely food service, but a personal favor to you - the lazy woman who didn’t want to cook for her family. There are the people in the accounting and IT departments who assume you are stupid and have to explain some lame ass process to you, even though you don’t care, because in the end, it’s their job, not yours. And, we must not forget those friends you don’t see very often who send you the conservative spam email completely forgetting that you are against George Bush’s war for oil and worked on the Kerry campaign.
Yes, for every ten people you meet in life on a day-to-day basis at least one needs a good, hard bitch slap. The kind of slap that’s done with feeling like every fiber of your being draws your hand to their face with one smooth gliding motion, and releases a tension the size of a good Mt. Saint Helen’s blast. Unfortunately, what you see as a favor to society, most local authorities see as assault and battery, so you just have to look at those sorry bastards and daydream about slapping them. After all, dreaming is free.
Most people in my day-to-day life are lovely. I am pleased to be surrounded by a good group of friends, co-workers, and acquaintances. Sure, every now and again I have to run like hell to the bookstore to avoid wanting to physically injure the man and child I live with, but that’s what happens when three individuals with unique and strong personalities decide to reside in the same house.
There are a select few people in my life right now that I don’t see all that often, but when I do see them, piss me off to no end. These are the people who I’m forced to deal with from time to time, and have to be polite to for the sake of making the occasional time I spend with them less of a hell, and no, they aren’t all relatives or in-laws.
One of the people whose head I’d like to go upside is a woman who attends the same class I do on Tuesday night. For the past few months I’ve been taking a Jewish studies course. Most of the people in the class are great. They are wonderful, thinking people with easy-going personalities who are always willing to make small talk and greet you with a smile, then there’s this bitch. Orthodox Jews who observe the Sabbath, and adhere to the laws of Jewish living are called frum. Sometimes, the women, who often dress modestly covering their hair, are crudely referred to, by less observant Jews, as frummies. I don’t know if the chick that annoys the hell out of me in my haven of Jewish study and thinking is going for the award of “Frummy of the Year,” but she’s pissing me off in the process.
Usually, I approach people who try way too hard to fit in with pity. I mean, how pathetic is your life when you have to go out of your way to be something in order to get acceptance. If you were meant to fit in with a group or be a certain way, it would just come organically and with little effort. This woman has crossed over from pity case to annoying, and the very tone of her voice makes me want to slap her a good one.
She was semi-polite to me until the night I walked into class wearing slacks. She kind of gave me a pissy look and went out of her way, in a very clownish and animated gesture, to hug another (more observant) Jewish woman who walked in the room behind me. I realize I may not be the fabulous fashionista I would like to be, and I don’t dislike this woman, because she doesn’t like my pants, I could give a shit less about her critique of my personal style. What chews my cheese is that she was judging me, and who the fuck is she to judge me!
It’s bad enough that I have to watch her kiss ass to every rabbi who comes in to teach, or that I have to stand in line to ask a relevant question about the lesson, because she wants the rabbi to know that she is inviting his wife over for coffee, to be judged by a woman who pairs Nikes with a long jean skirt, frumpy sweater, and a poly-cotton blended beret is just too much.
All of my experiences with members of the Orthodox Jewish community have been wonderful, so I can’t hold one bad seed against them, and I wouldn’t encourage anyone else to either. Unfortunately, assholes reside in every group and every circumstance.
There are those waitresses with chips on their shoulders who believe that what they do isn’t merely food service, but a personal favor to you - the lazy woman who didn’t want to cook for her family. There are the people in the accounting and IT departments who assume you are stupid and have to explain some lame ass process to you, even though you don’t care, because in the end, it’s their job, not yours. And, we must not forget those friends you don’t see very often who send you the conservative spam email completely forgetting that you are against George Bush’s war for oil and worked on the Kerry campaign.
Yes, for every ten people you meet in life on a day-to-day basis at least one needs a good, hard bitch slap. The kind of slap that’s done with feeling like every fiber of your being draws your hand to their face with one smooth gliding motion, and releases a tension the size of a good Mt. Saint Helen’s blast. Unfortunately, what you see as a favor to society, most local authorities see as assault and battery, so you just have to look at those sorry bastards and daydream about slapping them. After all, dreaming is free.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Just Finish the Damn Book!
I normally pride myself on not caring what people think; especially when it comes to something I do creatively. I’ve weathered criticism before, the worst being when I published a small indie zine in Idaho. The entertainment editor for Boise’s largest daily newspaper went on and on about what a sellout, shitty rag the zine was. Did I mention that other than being a complete dick he was also egotistical, and basically stuck in Boise, because he couldn’t get a job writing for a bigger publication anywhere else. Anyways, like I said, I take criticism like a lady.
My worst critic is (be prepared for a shock) myself. I’ve been writing this damn book for nearly six months, yet lately when I want to do just a few more pages, a little voice in the back of my head begins telling me that instead of writing a compelling story, I’m penning mindless, romance novel drivel that will contribute nothing to society and make me a complete laughing stock. I wonder if George Orwell had this same problem.
I went to visit some of my former co-workers, all of which know about the book, and they greeted me with enthusiasm asking me when the book would be finished. Even my dad, who admits he is not exactly the most astute person, has asked me when I’m going to be finished with my book. Jeff regularly inquires about my progress, and sometimes I take it as general concern as opposed to more nagging, but again, I’m overcome with this sense of insecurity.
Worst case scenario: I could finish writing the book, and the only publisher interested would be Harlequin and my book would come out as a romance novel and be read by only a thousand people. Harlequin would pass on the option for a second book, and I would be relegated to dropping the other three books in the series or self-publishing.
Even worse case scenario: I could also end up getting turned down by Harlequin and have to completely self-publish which would be like taking a second job given the daunting task of marketing. After self-publishing and working myself ragged marking the hell out of my self-published work, I would only end up selling a small number of books to my friends and family, and figure out that it wasn’t worth self-publishing the rest of the series. I guess, in the end, it’s all a big gamble.
The best case scenario would be that I would get a nice publishing deal with a small, but influential publishing house that would call my book “cutting edge” and “emotionally real”. They would begin a successful grassroots marketing campaign that would lead to an assload of press and national recognition. My book would work to a best seller and I would end up on Oprah giving her little nibbles of information about the “much anticipated” second book in the series.
For years I worked in the music industry, and always admired the musicians I met, because even though some were famous enough to fill arenas while others drew a modest club audience, they got out there every night and played like they were on fire. If they had any self-doubt or moments of fighting off that voice in the back of their head, I never saw it on stage. I should take a queue from them, just finish the damn book, and put it out there.
It is an interesting story, after all. I mean, what woman in her lifetime hasn’t wanted a passionate romance with a rock star, or been in a situation where the relationship feels so good, but it’s bad for your life. I’ve re-worked the character slightly, because after reading through the first 100 pages, I thought she was beginning to come off like a bit of a whiny bitch. I want her to be struggling with choices, but I don’t want each decision to be a Vagisil moment.
In the end, I worry less about whether I’m good or if I suck, and more about just being mediocre. I don’t want to be one of the writers that are easy to pass by on the bookshelf. I want what I do to grab people and make them read the inner flap. I want people to read my work, and be honest about what they think. When I say I want to sell a million books, I’m less concerned about making money and more interested in having a million pairs of eyes examining my words with interest.
I guess the voice in my head comes from trying to compare myself with the writers I love, and constantly asking the question of whether my work is comparable to theirs. This I will never know, until some asshole who writes for a literary review tells me that my work is absolute drivel. For now, I should buck it up and finish the damn book. Who knows, I could be the next Margaret Atwood, Pearl S. Buck, or at least a less pathetic version of Janet Evanovich.
My worst critic is (be prepared for a shock) myself. I’ve been writing this damn book for nearly six months, yet lately when I want to do just a few more pages, a little voice in the back of my head begins telling me that instead of writing a compelling story, I’m penning mindless, romance novel drivel that will contribute nothing to society and make me a complete laughing stock. I wonder if George Orwell had this same problem.
I went to visit some of my former co-workers, all of which know about the book, and they greeted me with enthusiasm asking me when the book would be finished. Even my dad, who admits he is not exactly the most astute person, has asked me when I’m going to be finished with my book. Jeff regularly inquires about my progress, and sometimes I take it as general concern as opposed to more nagging, but again, I’m overcome with this sense of insecurity.
Worst case scenario: I could finish writing the book, and the only publisher interested would be Harlequin and my book would come out as a romance novel and be read by only a thousand people. Harlequin would pass on the option for a second book, and I would be relegated to dropping the other three books in the series or self-publishing.
Even worse case scenario: I could also end up getting turned down by Harlequin and have to completely self-publish which would be like taking a second job given the daunting task of marketing. After self-publishing and working myself ragged marking the hell out of my self-published work, I would only end up selling a small number of books to my friends and family, and figure out that it wasn’t worth self-publishing the rest of the series. I guess, in the end, it’s all a big gamble.
The best case scenario would be that I would get a nice publishing deal with a small, but influential publishing house that would call my book “cutting edge” and “emotionally real”. They would begin a successful grassroots marketing campaign that would lead to an assload of press and national recognition. My book would work to a best seller and I would end up on Oprah giving her little nibbles of information about the “much anticipated” second book in the series.
For years I worked in the music industry, and always admired the musicians I met, because even though some were famous enough to fill arenas while others drew a modest club audience, they got out there every night and played like they were on fire. If they had any self-doubt or moments of fighting off that voice in the back of their head, I never saw it on stage. I should take a queue from them, just finish the damn book, and put it out there.
It is an interesting story, after all. I mean, what woman in her lifetime hasn’t wanted a passionate romance with a rock star, or been in a situation where the relationship feels so good, but it’s bad for your life. I’ve re-worked the character slightly, because after reading through the first 100 pages, I thought she was beginning to come off like a bit of a whiny bitch. I want her to be struggling with choices, but I don’t want each decision to be a Vagisil moment.
In the end, I worry less about whether I’m good or if I suck, and more about just being mediocre. I don’t want to be one of the writers that are easy to pass by on the bookshelf. I want what I do to grab people and make them read the inner flap. I want people to read my work, and be honest about what they think. When I say I want to sell a million books, I’m less concerned about making money and more interested in having a million pairs of eyes examining my words with interest.
I guess the voice in my head comes from trying to compare myself with the writers I love, and constantly asking the question of whether my work is comparable to theirs. This I will never know, until some asshole who writes for a literary review tells me that my work is absolute drivel. For now, I should buck it up and finish the damn book. Who knows, I could be the next Margaret Atwood, Pearl S. Buck, or at least a less pathetic version of Janet Evanovich.
Friday, November 04, 2005
A Re-Discovered Appreciation for Friday
I’m finding myself in a weird place these days with working the new job, and all. Some of the things I’ve discovered such as traffic, my daughter’s clinginess when I drop her off at daycare, and trying to look busy during those last 45 minutes of the workday, when there’s nothing to do are big downers. Lately though, I’m beginning to remember a childhood pleasure that has re-emerged in my day-to-day life: the joy of Friday.
I don’t think there is a kid in America, barring the juvenile delinquent and the sorry, uber religious, home schooled bastard, who doesn’t associate Friday with fun and excitement. It’s the end of the week, the beginning of 48 hours of extremely limited structure where you can stay up watching cheesy, B-rated cable movies, and IM your friends until 2:00 AM. Then following fun Friday comes glorious Saturday with its “breaking all the rules” mayhem. On Saturday, we used to go to the dinky, little mall and buy cigarettes out of the vending machine until some Mormon legislator outlawed those sweet dispensers of addiction. I would spend Saturday night at Christina or Christina’s house, the only difference between the two being one Christina’s family would drag me to church on Sunday, while the other Christina’s mother made us waffles.
Sunday was always kind of a sad day, because it signaled the end of the fun. On Sunday you had to do your homework and fold laundry. You had to get to bed early on Sunday night and tiptoe around the house during the day, because Dad was sitting in his chair watching sports and he didn’t want to be bothered. There was nothing fun, exciting or mayhemish about Sunday, it was just a drag.
In college there was less appreciation for Friday, simply because I would usually skip class, or if I did go, the professor was so antsy to get his weekend started that he let us go early. Friday did usually include a game and a drunken party at Kappa Sigma, but that happened on Saturday, too, and on occasion the Kappa Sigs would throw down and party during the weekdays.
I entered the professional world and went into the music industry, where Friday was always a concert night. We would do shows on Fridays and Saturdays, so in a way, the regular week was a break for us, and because of the circumstance, ended up losing even more appreciation for the Friday.
After Rachael was born, I retired from the working world, and one day looked like any other. I would often figure out which day of the week it was by the amount of time Jeff would hang out around the house. He was in graduate school for most of Rachael’s first year of life, so even on the weekends he was gone. I would end up figuring out that it wasn’t a weekday by looking for Oprah around 4:00 PM, and getting football, which is somewhat sad and pathetic.
Now that I’m back at work, and on a regular schedule, the fun and excitement of Friday has returned. I look forward to the end of my productive work week, because I know that in between arranging the big event and trying to make the best of the six evening hours before bed, I get a 54 hour stretch of time that I can do whatever I want. Even when I had all the time in the world to waste, for some reason, it was too much of a good thing, and I didn’t recognize it as fun. However, much like the mainstream news and The Daily Show; you need to have a balance. You can’t appreciate the humor, fun and insightful, liberal perspective of The Daily Show without the boring, regimented, and right-wing slanted mainstream news.
On either Friday or Saturday, much like the days of old, you know, when MTV actually played videos, I stay up until 2:00 AM. The strange thing is, again much like the days of old, I’m alone watching television in my pajamas, but now it’s a bit different. Instead of wishing there was something better to do, like I did when I was a teenager, I revel in my late night, alone time. It’s just me and Comedy Central’s Secret Stash, where I can hear comics in all of their filth-ridden glory. Sometimes I write, sometimes I play computer games, and sometimes I just surf the web for whatever topic I feel like exploring. The next day, I get up lazily and we have breakfast as a family, and get out of the house for awhile. It’s a happy time, until Sunday evening rolls around, then just like the days of old, I’m neck deep in laundry, weekday planning, and mild housecleaning, all the while, looking forward to another glorious Friday.
I don’t think there is a kid in America, barring the juvenile delinquent and the sorry, uber religious, home schooled bastard, who doesn’t associate Friday with fun and excitement. It’s the end of the week, the beginning of 48 hours of extremely limited structure where you can stay up watching cheesy, B-rated cable movies, and IM your friends until 2:00 AM. Then following fun Friday comes glorious Saturday with its “breaking all the rules” mayhem. On Saturday, we used to go to the dinky, little mall and buy cigarettes out of the vending machine until some Mormon legislator outlawed those sweet dispensers of addiction. I would spend Saturday night at Christina or Christina’s house, the only difference between the two being one Christina’s family would drag me to church on Sunday, while the other Christina’s mother made us waffles.
Sunday was always kind of a sad day, because it signaled the end of the fun. On Sunday you had to do your homework and fold laundry. You had to get to bed early on Sunday night and tiptoe around the house during the day, because Dad was sitting in his chair watching sports and he didn’t want to be bothered. There was nothing fun, exciting or mayhemish about Sunday, it was just a drag.
In college there was less appreciation for Friday, simply because I would usually skip class, or if I did go, the professor was so antsy to get his weekend started that he let us go early. Friday did usually include a game and a drunken party at Kappa Sigma, but that happened on Saturday, too, and on occasion the Kappa Sigs would throw down and party during the weekdays.
I entered the professional world and went into the music industry, where Friday was always a concert night. We would do shows on Fridays and Saturdays, so in a way, the regular week was a break for us, and because of the circumstance, ended up losing even more appreciation for the Friday.
After Rachael was born, I retired from the working world, and one day looked like any other. I would often figure out which day of the week it was by the amount of time Jeff would hang out around the house. He was in graduate school for most of Rachael’s first year of life, so even on the weekends he was gone. I would end up figuring out that it wasn’t a weekday by looking for Oprah around 4:00 PM, and getting football, which is somewhat sad and pathetic.
Now that I’m back at work, and on a regular schedule, the fun and excitement of Friday has returned. I look forward to the end of my productive work week, because I know that in between arranging the big event and trying to make the best of the six evening hours before bed, I get a 54 hour stretch of time that I can do whatever I want. Even when I had all the time in the world to waste, for some reason, it was too much of a good thing, and I didn’t recognize it as fun. However, much like the mainstream news and The Daily Show; you need to have a balance. You can’t appreciate the humor, fun and insightful, liberal perspective of The Daily Show without the boring, regimented, and right-wing slanted mainstream news.
On either Friday or Saturday, much like the days of old, you know, when MTV actually played videos, I stay up until 2:00 AM. The strange thing is, again much like the days of old, I’m alone watching television in my pajamas, but now it’s a bit different. Instead of wishing there was something better to do, like I did when I was a teenager, I revel in my late night, alone time. It’s just me and Comedy Central’s Secret Stash, where I can hear comics in all of their filth-ridden glory. Sometimes I write, sometimes I play computer games, and sometimes I just surf the web for whatever topic I feel like exploring. The next day, I get up lazily and we have breakfast as a family, and get out of the house for awhile. It’s a happy time, until Sunday evening rolls around, then just like the days of old, I’m neck deep in laundry, weekday planning, and mild housecleaning, all the while, looking forward to another glorious Friday.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
The Art of Fanny Patting
I work at a facility that borders the world of for profit and non-profit. My contribution to The Facility happens to be on the non-profit side of things. For those of you who have never worked for a non-profit you are probably making more money than I am, so good for you. For those of you who have done time on the non-profit treadmill, you have probably spent time mastering the art of, what I like to refer to as, fanny patting.
Fanny patting is a careful blend of gratitude meshed with appreciation and topped with a sprinkle of pure ass kissing. I found this difficult to do when I first arrived into the world of non-profits, because after all I am a punk and I don’t kiss anyone’s ass. Over time, I observed my peers as they instructed me on the etiquette of fanny patting, and I discovered that it is not so much a means of groveling, but rather a finely tuned talent such as playing the guitar or lip syncing like a pop diva.
In the world of non-profits you deal with a lot of people such as colleagues, vendors, volunteers, etc. Those people, you don’t have to pat fanny with, in fact, in some cases, you can treat them like shit if that’s your bag. The fanny patting comes into play with the other folks you end up dealing with: the Rich People. Without Rich People, non-profits wouldn’t exist, then again, neither would the American poverty structure or the puppet government that caters to the Rich People, but what can you do. It’s not like voting helps. Anyways, Rich People need a shitload of fanny patting.
Some folks are generous to a fault and give modestly expecting nothing in return and wanting absolutely no notoriety. Unfortunately, it’s not often that I get to deal with those people, no, I deal with the people who need to be coddled, congratulated, and told that the organization and The Facility would shrivel up and die if it wasn’t for them. The Rich People are further divided into various sects, and I always end up with The Clueless.
The Clueless are the ones you explain something to 5,000 times and they still don’t fucking get it! If you ever see me at a bar slamming shots of Jack while eating happy hour spinach dip straight from the bread bowl without any crackers, it’s because of these people. Yet, due to their “Rich People” status, I have to pat their fannies like there’s no tomorrow. Thankfully, out of all of the rich people that I currently have to deal with I only have two of The Clueless.
One of the other sects in the Rich People contingent are a group of very wise people who get what I’m trying to accomplish and do a lot to help the cause, and because they do a lot, they expect a thorough ass kissing every time I see them. These are the people in the newspaper smiling while holding a big cardboard check for a donation that they are giving to the charity whose representative is forced to pose in the picture with the Egomeister. Although I appreciate the knowledge the Egomeister brings to the project at times I feel nearly suffocated by their enormous head, which seems to fill the meeting room at a rapid pace.
Despite my management level position, I am often enlisted as the personal assistant to any of the Rich People at a moment’s notice. Not only do I deal with their bizarre personality quirks, I run errands for them, listen to their problems, solve those problems, write their speeches, and on top of all this have to thoroughly pat their fannies while trying to get my own work done.
The benefit is that I’m a patient and somewhat quiet person. I’ve also done many years in the music industry where I learned to deal with the strange demands of weird people, while having my fanny patted sometimes (unfortunately for me it was literally, and not the figurative fanny patting I’m talking about above). However, I managed to make a life out of being all things to clueless, egomeister, sometimes crazy, rich people, and I’m usually rewarded with a borderline, disinterested “thank you” or kissed on both cheeks at the major event, which I’ve put together for them to make them look good in front of their peers.
I do what I do, and I am good at it. I’m a champion fanny patter, not because I was born that way, but because, like a diligent student hungering for the knowledge of the universe, I’ve mastered the art. Tomorrow is another meeting of the Rich People and you can be sure that I will be patting fanny ‘til the cows come home.
Fanny patting is a careful blend of gratitude meshed with appreciation and topped with a sprinkle of pure ass kissing. I found this difficult to do when I first arrived into the world of non-profits, because after all I am a punk and I don’t kiss anyone’s ass. Over time, I observed my peers as they instructed me on the etiquette of fanny patting, and I discovered that it is not so much a means of groveling, but rather a finely tuned talent such as playing the guitar or lip syncing like a pop diva.
In the world of non-profits you deal with a lot of people such as colleagues, vendors, volunteers, etc. Those people, you don’t have to pat fanny with, in fact, in some cases, you can treat them like shit if that’s your bag. The fanny patting comes into play with the other folks you end up dealing with: the Rich People. Without Rich People, non-profits wouldn’t exist, then again, neither would the American poverty structure or the puppet government that caters to the Rich People, but what can you do. It’s not like voting helps. Anyways, Rich People need a shitload of fanny patting.
Some folks are generous to a fault and give modestly expecting nothing in return and wanting absolutely no notoriety. Unfortunately, it’s not often that I get to deal with those people, no, I deal with the people who need to be coddled, congratulated, and told that the organization and The Facility would shrivel up and die if it wasn’t for them. The Rich People are further divided into various sects, and I always end up with The Clueless.
The Clueless are the ones you explain something to 5,000 times and they still don’t fucking get it! If you ever see me at a bar slamming shots of Jack while eating happy hour spinach dip straight from the bread bowl without any crackers, it’s because of these people. Yet, due to their “Rich People” status, I have to pat their fannies like there’s no tomorrow. Thankfully, out of all of the rich people that I currently have to deal with I only have two of The Clueless.
One of the other sects in the Rich People contingent are a group of very wise people who get what I’m trying to accomplish and do a lot to help the cause, and because they do a lot, they expect a thorough ass kissing every time I see them. These are the people in the newspaper smiling while holding a big cardboard check for a donation that they are giving to the charity whose representative is forced to pose in the picture with the Egomeister. Although I appreciate the knowledge the Egomeister brings to the project at times I feel nearly suffocated by their enormous head, which seems to fill the meeting room at a rapid pace.
Despite my management level position, I am often enlisted as the personal assistant to any of the Rich People at a moment’s notice. Not only do I deal with their bizarre personality quirks, I run errands for them, listen to their problems, solve those problems, write their speeches, and on top of all this have to thoroughly pat their fannies while trying to get my own work done.
The benefit is that I’m a patient and somewhat quiet person. I’ve also done many years in the music industry where I learned to deal with the strange demands of weird people, while having my fanny patted sometimes (unfortunately for me it was literally, and not the figurative fanny patting I’m talking about above). However, I managed to make a life out of being all things to clueless, egomeister, sometimes crazy, rich people, and I’m usually rewarded with a borderline, disinterested “thank you” or kissed on both cheeks at the major event, which I’ve put together for them to make them look good in front of their peers.
I do what I do, and I am good at it. I’m a champion fanny patter, not because I was born that way, but because, like a diligent student hungering for the knowledge of the universe, I’ve mastered the art. Tomorrow is another meeting of the Rich People and you can be sure that I will be patting fanny ‘til the cows come home.
Sunday, October 30, 2005
The Perfect Fit
Losing weight is such a positive thing. For women, fitting into a pair of jeans that happen to be a size smaller than you normally wear is right up there with finding out the guy you were completely mental over is way into you. Watching your body slim down is a plus, as is the fact that sex seems to get better with each fleeing pound, and picking out new clothes is such an esteem booster.
I don’t mind buying new pants; because Old Navy is the perfect destination for those of us in need of a reasonably priced transitional work wardrobe. Shirts are fun and adventurous to shop for, and the world of jackets seems to have opened up to me. My only bitch about shopping for new clothes lies in not what is visible, but what is invisible, or I should say, unmentionable.
Finding a perfect bra is like trying to climb Mt. Rainier in a wet suit. You may start out good and optimistic, but once you get into it, you realize you are way over your head, and any help you try to enlist is going to be expensive and embarrassing. The last time I tried to do quality bra hunting was my after baby excursion in early 2004. The fact is, once your tits go through lactation, they are never the same again. I gained an entire cup size, and not in the cool, glamorous, Hollywood way. After searching on my own, with no luck, I ended up exposing my less than fabulous chest to a small Asian woman in a Nordstrom dressing room. She measured me, and then talked me into buying very expensive bras that never quite fit that comfortably.
On the upside, I didn’t wear those pricy braziers long, because I lost enough weight to dig some oldies, but goodies out of the “prior to baby” clothing drawer. The three bras were still in fairly decent shape, but time seems to make one forget little quirks. The two white bras had a little squeak to them. Yes, that’s right, after wearing them for about an hour, if I shifted my body to either the left or right, they let out a muffled creak similar to wearing squeaky shoes. The black bra didn’t have the same oddly noisy foible, but it was beginning to show its wear. After spending an event committee meeting being a little too paranoid about my squeaky bra situation, I knew I had to bite the bullet and find a new method to keep the twins front and center.
On my first outing, I took Jeff and Rachael with me. This was really stupid. Jeff perched himself on the comfortable, padded bench in the Macy’s basement playing games on his cell phone, while Rachael followed me through aisles of bras. Like a tranny that just got his new tits, Rachael danced through the rows with excitement touching a variety of braziers. When she spotted a pinkish colored garment she would stop dead in her tracks and yell, “pinky Mommy, pinky, pinky.” It was too cute. She would survey the selection carefully picking out her favorites, then showing them to me with enthusiasm. Unfortunately, what my toddler failed to realize was that she picked the pretty, lacy, colorful bras, and those are only for little tittied girls. I am a DD, and they don’t give DD size bras descriptions like “fun” and “flirtatious,” which is okay by me, because when you have a pair of DDs, you don’t need to decorate them with foo foo and lace.
I probably tried on 20 bras before throwing in the towel. I went home that night and began to try and gauge exactly how much mileage I could get out of my squeaky whites and my ratty black. I also wondered how much recovery time I would need if I just had the breast lift surgery, but decided that was not an option at this point in my life, because I have a big trip coming up in December. Plus, if I ended up getting the tits lifted now, and decided to have another kid, then lactation will destroy at least $5,000 worth of work, and my husband would consider it too wasteful to pay for a second breast lift.
The next day, I went out alone, returning to the mall for one last try. I found myself in the basement of JC Penney surveying the selection, which leads me to another question, ‘why the hell are the bras and panties always relegated to the basement!?!’ Is our society still that fucking Puritanical? I struck gold on my shopping trip, because out of the five bras that I brought back to the dressing room, the first one I tried on fit comfortably and made my boobs look good. They were also on sale and there was an offer for a buy three, get one free!
I’m set for now, thankfully, but I still hate shopping for bras. I can only hope that as I continue to drop weight it will not be necessary for me to go through this bra shopping experience again until I reach my goal. Then I will suck it up, head to the mall, and avoid the pretty bras once again. Just for amusement, I will take Rachael, because watching someone so young get that excited about bras is humorous, yet slightly disturbing.
I don’t mind buying new pants; because Old Navy is the perfect destination for those of us in need of a reasonably priced transitional work wardrobe. Shirts are fun and adventurous to shop for, and the world of jackets seems to have opened up to me. My only bitch about shopping for new clothes lies in not what is visible, but what is invisible, or I should say, unmentionable.
Finding a perfect bra is like trying to climb Mt. Rainier in a wet suit. You may start out good and optimistic, but once you get into it, you realize you are way over your head, and any help you try to enlist is going to be expensive and embarrassing. The last time I tried to do quality bra hunting was my after baby excursion in early 2004. The fact is, once your tits go through lactation, they are never the same again. I gained an entire cup size, and not in the cool, glamorous, Hollywood way. After searching on my own, with no luck, I ended up exposing my less than fabulous chest to a small Asian woman in a Nordstrom dressing room. She measured me, and then talked me into buying very expensive bras that never quite fit that comfortably.
On the upside, I didn’t wear those pricy braziers long, because I lost enough weight to dig some oldies, but goodies out of the “prior to baby” clothing drawer. The three bras were still in fairly decent shape, but time seems to make one forget little quirks. The two white bras had a little squeak to them. Yes, that’s right, after wearing them for about an hour, if I shifted my body to either the left or right, they let out a muffled creak similar to wearing squeaky shoes. The black bra didn’t have the same oddly noisy foible, but it was beginning to show its wear. After spending an event committee meeting being a little too paranoid about my squeaky bra situation, I knew I had to bite the bullet and find a new method to keep the twins front and center.
On my first outing, I took Jeff and Rachael with me. This was really stupid. Jeff perched himself on the comfortable, padded bench in the Macy’s basement playing games on his cell phone, while Rachael followed me through aisles of bras. Like a tranny that just got his new tits, Rachael danced through the rows with excitement touching a variety of braziers. When she spotted a pinkish colored garment she would stop dead in her tracks and yell, “pinky Mommy, pinky, pinky.” It was too cute. She would survey the selection carefully picking out her favorites, then showing them to me with enthusiasm. Unfortunately, what my toddler failed to realize was that she picked the pretty, lacy, colorful bras, and those are only for little tittied girls. I am a DD, and they don’t give DD size bras descriptions like “fun” and “flirtatious,” which is okay by me, because when you have a pair of DDs, you don’t need to decorate them with foo foo and lace.
I probably tried on 20 bras before throwing in the towel. I went home that night and began to try and gauge exactly how much mileage I could get out of my squeaky whites and my ratty black. I also wondered how much recovery time I would need if I just had the breast lift surgery, but decided that was not an option at this point in my life, because I have a big trip coming up in December. Plus, if I ended up getting the tits lifted now, and decided to have another kid, then lactation will destroy at least $5,000 worth of work, and my husband would consider it too wasteful to pay for a second breast lift.
The next day, I went out alone, returning to the mall for one last try. I found myself in the basement of JC Penney surveying the selection, which leads me to another question, ‘why the hell are the bras and panties always relegated to the basement!?!’ Is our society still that fucking Puritanical? I struck gold on my shopping trip, because out of the five bras that I brought back to the dressing room, the first one I tried on fit comfortably and made my boobs look good. They were also on sale and there was an offer for a buy three, get one free!
I’m set for now, thankfully, but I still hate shopping for bras. I can only hope that as I continue to drop weight it will not be necessary for me to go through this bra shopping experience again until I reach my goal. Then I will suck it up, head to the mall, and avoid the pretty bras once again. Just for amusement, I will take Rachael, because watching someone so young get that excited about bras is humorous, yet slightly disturbing.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
A Chico's Kind of Day
I felt good today when I came home to my disaster of a house. I was uber productive at work finishing an enormous list and many letters to prepare for the big benefit auction. I spent all day wearing a fabulous outfit that included a stylish shirt that I haven’t been able to fit into for four years. We had dinner at a restaurant and Rachael was actually well behaved. Today was a complete score until Jeff got the mail.
There are very few moments in life that have made me feel like I was getting old: watching my baby become more and more of a person everyday, noticing the tiny lines forming under my eyes (namely due to the baby that is becoming of a person), and the new copy of the Chico’s catalog staring me in the face. What a way to ruin a good day.
Let me say, that I have nothing personally against Chico’s. They make decent, upscale clothing for upper middle class women. However, usually those women are at least 20 years my senior. At first I tried to remain in denial, maybe this catalog was for the woman who used to live here. She might have only been a few years older than me, but she was the type that would have been happy wearing Chico’s. I closed my eyes tightly as I turned the catalog over, and unfortunately, my name was printed in black on the white block.
How could all of those target marketers be so wrong? Just last week, I got two samples of Stage 4 Pampers, so they know I have a baby. I realize in-vitro is becoming the “in” thing to do, but I don’t think there are too many women putting in for early retirement, while changing stinky toddler diapers. It’s not as if I haven’t left a very hip paper trail for those advertisers. I subscribe to The Nation, BUST, and Bitch Magazine, and support youthful causes. Maybe it was the Martha Stewart Living gift subscription that my in-laws gave me for Hanukkah that warranted the attention of Chico’s, but to my defense, I only got interested in the domestic goddess after she became a martyred felon.
I flipped through the Chico’s catalog to make sure that I had not unfairly judged the clothing retailer, but I was dead on the money. I don’t know any woman under the age of 50 who would be caught dead in this gear. Actually, I don’t know any non-Caucasian, upper middle class, suburb mother whose children were going to be entering college next year, and has a husband who is warding off his midlife crisis by purchasing a hot car and getting hair plugs, who would be caught dead in these clothes. I may be living in the ‘burbs, but thankfully, I haven’t given into most of the suburb conventions including the vacuous cocktail parties and the white bread clothing.
Tonight when I get ready for bed, no matter how awesome my workout is, I know I’m going to spend an extra ten minutes examining my face in the mirror. I don’t mind getting older, but I hate living in a culture that continuously lowers the “over the hill” age for women. When I was in high school, women in their late 20s/early 30s were considered prime, but by the time I entered my mid-20s, I was the perfect age. Now that I’m in my early 30s, girls in their late teens and early 20s are being touted as most desirable. I guess as long as stupid men drive marketing, the situation will continue to get more pathetic. All I can do is hope that by the time my Rachael enters 5th grade, I won’t have to worry about 20-something dumbfucks in their tricked out Scions cruising her elementary school.
My aging obsession is touch and go. I’m not going to turn into one of those scary Frankenstein, plastic surgery broads who get everything tucked, sucked and lifted. However, I’m not completely opposed to a small surgical refresher right before my 20 year high school reunion. I will, most likely, wake up tomorrow feeling as young and fabulous as I did this morning. I will style my non-gray hair, apply moisturizing makeup to my youthful face, and wear something that makes me feel vibrant. Then I will do myself a favor by making a strong cup of coffee and toss the catalog in the trash, because tomorrow is not going to be a Chico’s kind of day.
There are very few moments in life that have made me feel like I was getting old: watching my baby become more and more of a person everyday, noticing the tiny lines forming under my eyes (namely due to the baby that is becoming of a person), and the new copy of the Chico’s catalog staring me in the face. What a way to ruin a good day.
Let me say, that I have nothing personally against Chico’s. They make decent, upscale clothing for upper middle class women. However, usually those women are at least 20 years my senior. At first I tried to remain in denial, maybe this catalog was for the woman who used to live here. She might have only been a few years older than me, but she was the type that would have been happy wearing Chico’s. I closed my eyes tightly as I turned the catalog over, and unfortunately, my name was printed in black on the white block.
How could all of those target marketers be so wrong? Just last week, I got two samples of Stage 4 Pampers, so they know I have a baby. I realize in-vitro is becoming the “in” thing to do, but I don’t think there are too many women putting in for early retirement, while changing stinky toddler diapers. It’s not as if I haven’t left a very hip paper trail for those advertisers. I subscribe to The Nation, BUST, and Bitch Magazine, and support youthful causes. Maybe it was the Martha Stewart Living gift subscription that my in-laws gave me for Hanukkah that warranted the attention of Chico’s, but to my defense, I only got interested in the domestic goddess after she became a martyred felon.
I flipped through the Chico’s catalog to make sure that I had not unfairly judged the clothing retailer, but I was dead on the money. I don’t know any woman under the age of 50 who would be caught dead in this gear. Actually, I don’t know any non-Caucasian, upper middle class, suburb mother whose children were going to be entering college next year, and has a husband who is warding off his midlife crisis by purchasing a hot car and getting hair plugs, who would be caught dead in these clothes. I may be living in the ‘burbs, but thankfully, I haven’t given into most of the suburb conventions including the vacuous cocktail parties and the white bread clothing.
Tonight when I get ready for bed, no matter how awesome my workout is, I know I’m going to spend an extra ten minutes examining my face in the mirror. I don’t mind getting older, but I hate living in a culture that continuously lowers the “over the hill” age for women. When I was in high school, women in their late 20s/early 30s were considered prime, but by the time I entered my mid-20s, I was the perfect age. Now that I’m in my early 30s, girls in their late teens and early 20s are being touted as most desirable. I guess as long as stupid men drive marketing, the situation will continue to get more pathetic. All I can do is hope that by the time my Rachael enters 5th grade, I won’t have to worry about 20-something dumbfucks in their tricked out Scions cruising her elementary school.
My aging obsession is touch and go. I’m not going to turn into one of those scary Frankenstein, plastic surgery broads who get everything tucked, sucked and lifted. However, I’m not completely opposed to a small surgical refresher right before my 20 year high school reunion. I will, most likely, wake up tomorrow feeling as young and fabulous as I did this morning. I will style my non-gray hair, apply moisturizing makeup to my youthful face, and wear something that makes me feel vibrant. Then I will do myself a favor by making a strong cup of coffee and toss the catalog in the trash, because tomorrow is not going to be a Chico’s kind of day.
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Setting the Record Straight on Kabbalah
I’m no stranger to sounding off. I have lots of opinions about everything and I’ve never been afraid to share and defend those positions. For the past couple of years I have noticed a trend in popular culture that is driving me crazier than most popular culture trends usually do. A few weeks ago it hit a boiling point, and now I, and I, alone will set the record straight. It is my duty as an outspoken person, a critic of sociology, a mouthy punk, and a member of the Jewish faith. Let me say, once and for all, those Hollywood shitheads have no clue what Kabbalah is all about, so I have taken upon myself to give everyone the secret 411 about the red string, the Los Angeles Kabbalah centers and the correct method of ritualistically slaughtering chickens when practicing Kabbalah. Just kidding about the chickens!
Let me start by defining what Kabbalah is in the most simplest of terms, and best of all, unlike the L.A. Kabbalah Center, I won’t charge you $1,000 for the explanation. Kabbalah is the study of Jewish mysticism, or the way in which G-d interacts with our world. G-d is said to be hidden, which allows us to have the free will to choose between good and evil. Therefore, Kabbalah at its basic level is the study of how that hidden G-d interacts with the physical world we live in.
I could tell you more, but according to a very strict Jewish law, I’m not allowed to study Kabbalah until the age of 40. That’s right, no Kabbalah until 40, so anyone in their early 20s taking Kabbalah is full of shit. The purpose of waiting until you’re 40 is simple and practical, much like all of Judaism. People used to kill over at anywhere from 50-60 years old, so at 40 you were basically at third base running for home. It was cool to begin studying how G-d related and manifests himself in the physical world, because you weren’t going to be in that world much longer. Basically, your study of Kabbalah coincided with the fact that you were getting to the end of your life.
When I read that Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher, neither one of which are Jewish, had a Kabbalah wedding, the “what the fuck” ran through my head. I don’t mind so much that they aren’t Jewish, because unlike every other faith in the world, Jews believe that you don’t have to be a Jew in order to have a relationship with G-d. That’s right; you can be a Christian, Muslim, or Hindu and still have a quality relationship with the G-d of Moses and Israel without being a Jew. If you are a Jew, however, you have obligations to fulfill, and the rabbi would like to speak to you about those obligations.
Back to the Demi-Ashton wedding. Since you study Kabbalah as a means for preparing for your transformation from this world to the next, how is it possible to have a Kabbalah wedding? Very simple, it’s called expensive and creative marketing of a sacred element of the Jewish faith to vacuous idiots who are willing to pay top dollar to believe that they’ve uncovered some mysterious secret of the universe that only someone of their stature should be privy to.
I would like to credit every Jew with having a higher sense of morality, but that would be a stereotype. Unfortunately, those rabbis who run the L.A. Kabbalah Center teaching complex elements of the faith to intellectuals such as Brittney Spears, Madonna, and Paris Hilton have either completely discarded their moral compass or they recognize a sweet-ass money maker when they see it. At the very least, they should have their ordinations pulled, and be bitch slapped by at least a dozen elderly Orthodox rabbis.
Studying Kabbalah isn’t a bad thing, and if those who aren’t Jewish want to learn about it, there’s nothing wrong with that. However, in order to understand Kabbalah, one has to have a thorough understanding of the Torah (Jewish bible), and the other books of extensive commentary that accompany it. Basically, it takes several years of studying the Torah to prepare for Kabbalah study, and as everyone knows, asking someone in Hollywood to commit to something for several years is neither glamorous nor realistic.
Unscrupulous rabbis might be selling Kabbalah as some sort of magical understanding of the way the world works, but at its heart, Kabbalah is merely the study of how G-d relates to the physical world. There is nothing Harry Potter about Kabbalah. You won’t be able to cast spells, move things with your mind, or ward off bad things happening to you by wearing a piece of red string.
As for the Kabbalah weddings, I’ve never attended one, and doubt I will be invited to in the future given the fact that I don’t live in L.A. or happen to be friendly with anyone whose idiot level would make them pay top dollar for a Kabbalah wedding. If I do happen to encounter a staunch L.A. style Kabbalist who swears that the red string is legit, I will be happy to sell them that piece of string for a discounted price of $25.
Let me start by defining what Kabbalah is in the most simplest of terms, and best of all, unlike the L.A. Kabbalah Center, I won’t charge you $1,000 for the explanation. Kabbalah is the study of Jewish mysticism, or the way in which G-d interacts with our world. G-d is said to be hidden, which allows us to have the free will to choose between good and evil. Therefore, Kabbalah at its basic level is the study of how that hidden G-d interacts with the physical world we live in.
I could tell you more, but according to a very strict Jewish law, I’m not allowed to study Kabbalah until the age of 40. That’s right, no Kabbalah until 40, so anyone in their early 20s taking Kabbalah is full of shit. The purpose of waiting until you’re 40 is simple and practical, much like all of Judaism. People used to kill over at anywhere from 50-60 years old, so at 40 you were basically at third base running for home. It was cool to begin studying how G-d related and manifests himself in the physical world, because you weren’t going to be in that world much longer. Basically, your study of Kabbalah coincided with the fact that you were getting to the end of your life.
When I read that Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher, neither one of which are Jewish, had a Kabbalah wedding, the “what the fuck” ran through my head. I don’t mind so much that they aren’t Jewish, because unlike every other faith in the world, Jews believe that you don’t have to be a Jew in order to have a relationship with G-d. That’s right; you can be a Christian, Muslim, or Hindu and still have a quality relationship with the G-d of Moses and Israel without being a Jew. If you are a Jew, however, you have obligations to fulfill, and the rabbi would like to speak to you about those obligations.
Back to the Demi-Ashton wedding. Since you study Kabbalah as a means for preparing for your transformation from this world to the next, how is it possible to have a Kabbalah wedding? Very simple, it’s called expensive and creative marketing of a sacred element of the Jewish faith to vacuous idiots who are willing to pay top dollar to believe that they’ve uncovered some mysterious secret of the universe that only someone of their stature should be privy to.
I would like to credit every Jew with having a higher sense of morality, but that would be a stereotype. Unfortunately, those rabbis who run the L.A. Kabbalah Center teaching complex elements of the faith to intellectuals such as Brittney Spears, Madonna, and Paris Hilton have either completely discarded their moral compass or they recognize a sweet-ass money maker when they see it. At the very least, they should have their ordinations pulled, and be bitch slapped by at least a dozen elderly Orthodox rabbis.
Studying Kabbalah isn’t a bad thing, and if those who aren’t Jewish want to learn about it, there’s nothing wrong with that. However, in order to understand Kabbalah, one has to have a thorough understanding of the Torah (Jewish bible), and the other books of extensive commentary that accompany it. Basically, it takes several years of studying the Torah to prepare for Kabbalah study, and as everyone knows, asking someone in Hollywood to commit to something for several years is neither glamorous nor realistic.
Unscrupulous rabbis might be selling Kabbalah as some sort of magical understanding of the way the world works, but at its heart, Kabbalah is merely the study of how G-d relates to the physical world. There is nothing Harry Potter about Kabbalah. You won’t be able to cast spells, move things with your mind, or ward off bad things happening to you by wearing a piece of red string.
As for the Kabbalah weddings, I’ve never attended one, and doubt I will be invited to in the future given the fact that I don’t live in L.A. or happen to be friendly with anyone whose idiot level would make them pay top dollar for a Kabbalah wedding. If I do happen to encounter a staunch L.A. style Kabbalist who swears that the red string is legit, I will be happy to sell them that piece of string for a discounted price of $25.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Traffic Woes
There are very few things in this world that turn me into a complete nutcase. In fact, I credit myself with the ability to remain calm in the middle of a humungous shitstorm. I’ve done event where major things have gone wrong, but I never lose my cool. To date the only things that drive me up a wall is my daughter’s whining and my husband asking me the same question for the millionth time. That all changed at the beginning of the week when I discovered a new form of torture the likes of which would make Abu Gharib look like a drunken frat party: Seattle traffic.
It was early Monday morning, way too early, and I had to be at The Facility for the enriching and interesting orientation program. It started at 8:00 a.m. and was in a small town near the SeaTac International Airport. Fortunately I live just ten miles away from the airport, so my commute should have only been 20 minutes max. In an ideal world where my house is never dirty and I could attend a birthday party without thinking about cake the whole time, this would have been true, but we don’t live in that wonderful fantasy world, we live in a cruel world congested with gas-sucking automobiles. On this particular morning as I left the house at 7:15 a.m. under the illusion that I had plenty of time, all of those aforementioned autos were in front of me, and were going an average of five miles per hour.
I headed down the hill to try and get on the highway, but the line began just as I hit the breaks easing into the steep grade. For the next couple of days I referred to this moment as “joining the lineup”. It would take ten minutes just to get down one fucking little hill, and on that early Monday morning, I was a half an hour late. That’s right; I left my house with 45 minutes to get to a destination that was ten miles away and I was 30 minutes late. We never discussed this problem in Algebra, and even if we did, I was too busy flirting with the cute guy that sat directly in front of me, so I wouldn’t have been listening anyway.
The second day I decided to be wiser. I left at 7:05 a.m., and took the secret back route that only I knew. Unfortunately, I hadn’t realized that during my two year retirement when I stayed home to watch Rachael, other people, evil commuters, had discovered my super secret route and were now using it without my permission. I was only 15 minutes late on Tuesday, which was an improvement, but still quite irritating.
The final day of orientation, I left at 7:00 a.m. straight up, and was only five minutes late. Fortunately, when I arrived at my permanent place of work, I discovered that the only person in my department who reported to work at 8:00 a.m. was the guy who lives within walking distance. Thursday I was able to leave at 8:30 a.m. and make it to work early, and that trip from my house included me dropping my smelly dog off at the groomer.
The difference in just traveling one hour later saved me 40-60 minutes. I should be happy about this, but frankly I am extremely puzzled. I am as perplexed about this traffic conundrum as I was the first time someone told me that he was dumping me, because he loved me too much. What kind of fucked up place do I live in that ten miles done at one hour equals 60 minutes, whereas ten miles done that very 60 minutes later equal 20 minutes? The sick, sad thing is not the complexity of the space/time continuum involved with the mass particle transfers known as traffic, it’s that I’m thinking way too hard about it when I should be concentrating on something more important like if we should take a road trip up to Vancouver, B.C. this weekend.
Seattle has many things going for it, but unfortunately the county Seattle resides in is run by a bunch of corrupt fuckheads who would rather use their political power to make money and advance their careers instead of doing something legitimately helpful for the citizenry. Why doesn’t Seattle have a decent mass transit system, that’s the 3 billion dollar question. Actually, it was 3 billion dollars, until this asshole they hired to oversee the monorail project that would have made this city run better, fucked with the numbers, now it’s up to 11 billion. Thankfully, they fired his ass, but now the mass transit system that should have been in place ten years ago is on hold indefinitely.
Much like all of those Hollywood shitheads thinking that Jews know some sort of secret to unlocking the universe, and its called Kabbalah, traffic will never be something I completely understand. I may not be able to get from my house to the airport at 8:00 a.m. in less than 60 minutes, but at least I don’t have to. I can just kick back until 8:30 a.m., leave the house in peace and avoid the dreaded lineup.
It was early Monday morning, way too early, and I had to be at The Facility for the enriching and interesting orientation program. It started at 8:00 a.m. and was in a small town near the SeaTac International Airport. Fortunately I live just ten miles away from the airport, so my commute should have only been 20 minutes max. In an ideal world where my house is never dirty and I could attend a birthday party without thinking about cake the whole time, this would have been true, but we don’t live in that wonderful fantasy world, we live in a cruel world congested with gas-sucking automobiles. On this particular morning as I left the house at 7:15 a.m. under the illusion that I had plenty of time, all of those aforementioned autos were in front of me, and were going an average of five miles per hour.
I headed down the hill to try and get on the highway, but the line began just as I hit the breaks easing into the steep grade. For the next couple of days I referred to this moment as “joining the lineup”. It would take ten minutes just to get down one fucking little hill, and on that early Monday morning, I was a half an hour late. That’s right; I left my house with 45 minutes to get to a destination that was ten miles away and I was 30 minutes late. We never discussed this problem in Algebra, and even if we did, I was too busy flirting with the cute guy that sat directly in front of me, so I wouldn’t have been listening anyway.
The second day I decided to be wiser. I left at 7:05 a.m., and took the secret back route that only I knew. Unfortunately, I hadn’t realized that during my two year retirement when I stayed home to watch Rachael, other people, evil commuters, had discovered my super secret route and were now using it without my permission. I was only 15 minutes late on Tuesday, which was an improvement, but still quite irritating.
The final day of orientation, I left at 7:00 a.m. straight up, and was only five minutes late. Fortunately, when I arrived at my permanent place of work, I discovered that the only person in my department who reported to work at 8:00 a.m. was the guy who lives within walking distance. Thursday I was able to leave at 8:30 a.m. and make it to work early, and that trip from my house included me dropping my smelly dog off at the groomer.
The difference in just traveling one hour later saved me 40-60 minutes. I should be happy about this, but frankly I am extremely puzzled. I am as perplexed about this traffic conundrum as I was the first time someone told me that he was dumping me, because he loved me too much. What kind of fucked up place do I live in that ten miles done at one hour equals 60 minutes, whereas ten miles done that very 60 minutes later equal 20 minutes? The sick, sad thing is not the complexity of the space/time continuum involved with the mass particle transfers known as traffic, it’s that I’m thinking way too hard about it when I should be concentrating on something more important like if we should take a road trip up to Vancouver, B.C. this weekend.
Seattle has many things going for it, but unfortunately the county Seattle resides in is run by a bunch of corrupt fuckheads who would rather use their political power to make money and advance their careers instead of doing something legitimately helpful for the citizenry. Why doesn’t Seattle have a decent mass transit system, that’s the 3 billion dollar question. Actually, it was 3 billion dollars, until this asshole they hired to oversee the monorail project that would have made this city run better, fucked with the numbers, now it’s up to 11 billion. Thankfully, they fired his ass, but now the mass transit system that should have been in place ten years ago is on hold indefinitely.
Much like all of those Hollywood shitheads thinking that Jews know some sort of secret to unlocking the universe, and its called Kabbalah, traffic will never be something I completely understand. I may not be able to get from my house to the airport at 8:00 a.m. in less than 60 minutes, but at least I don’t have to. I can just kick back until 8:30 a.m., leave the house in peace and avoid the dreaded lineup.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Two Days of Orientation Hell
I know I’m going to love my job once I get into the thick of things, because that’s how I am. Throw me in the water head first, and I’ll find a way to make the ocean mine. I don’t mind the awkwardness of being the new person, or the struggle to learn everyone’s name. I’ve had so many jobs in my short life that starting a new job is like second nature. The one common denominator, the main thing I hate more than a chick flick about love starring Julia Roberts, the getting started element that drives me to insanity is the orientation.
Granted, some orientation is good. You have to know what your benefits look like, and safety procedures are a good thing to have lurking in the back of your brain in case of a disaster, but orientation is something that should be worthy of no more than a half a day of coverage.
For the sake of legality (i.e. not getting my ass sued into oblivion), I am not allowed, in my writings, to name my place of work or identify my co-workers specifically. What I can tell you is that my job as a Special Events Manager has absolutely nothing to do with the business conducted at the place I work at. I am part of a small team in the fundraising department, but the rest of the folks that work at, what I will in the future refer to as, The Facility, are highly trained and specifically skilled. Basically, I have been sitting through two days of a fucking orientation that doesn’t really apply to me.
While I am happy to internalize the uplifting mission statement of The Facility, hearing the fourth person ask me for examples of each facet of the mission statement for the 100th time began to make me wonder why the hell I was there. Do I really want to spend my life in a regular job working regular hours with other suburban consumers highly trained in specialized fields?
As the way too perky training guru gave her never-ending shpeal about how to handle patrons to The Facility, I let my mind wander about everything from how my daughter might be doing at daycare to why Nate Fisher on Six Feet Under continued to hook up with Brenda once he found out her whole family was wacko.
Finally, one hour before lunch, Princess Perky broke us up into groups based on our personalities. I found out today that I’m a Green, or the “planner,” which is good for them considering that I have to start working on their major fundraising auction as soon as I’m done with the redundant, non-applicable bevy of information they are throwing at me. The rest of the personality exercise was humorous, but any sort of amusement ended there.
During the lunch break, I ate an over-priced salad and wandered around The Facility, but there wasn’t much to look at. The Facility I’m training at won’t be the one I will actually work at, because this particular organization has one main facility, a specialized facility, which will be my hub, and satellite facilities.
I pretty much zoned out for the last part of orientation, which has started every morning at 8:00 a.m. sharp. Thank goodness I’m not one of those clock in/clock out people, because I would be so fired. In fact, anymore, to save embarrassment and exasperation, I make sure that any job I take doesn’t require me to be in before 9:00 a.m. and will allow a flexible ten minutes given the flow of Seattle traffic, which I can tell you now sucks major ass.
Tomorrow is the last part of orientation. We will talk about having a sexual harassment free facility. Hopefully, if there is a G-d, we will get to watch another exciting training video to compliment the explanation of the boring policy. Those videos rock! They were all made in the ‘80s so every one of the actors, even the guys, has a really bad hairdo and major shoulder pads. These videos rival porn and local television commercials for the worst acting of all times, and I fear that I enjoy them way too much. I can guarantee you one thing, if they ask for volunteers to do a scenario of a sexual harassment situation; I will scramble to be the harasser.
Hopefully, after lunch when I report to my actual job, all of my fear and trepidation about taking a “regular” job will disappear, and I will lose myself in doing the event. If not, I know I will spend many hours over-analyzing every little detail of my life, my work, my purpose for being, but what can I say, I’m a Green and that’s what we do.
Granted, some orientation is good. You have to know what your benefits look like, and safety procedures are a good thing to have lurking in the back of your brain in case of a disaster, but orientation is something that should be worthy of no more than a half a day of coverage.
For the sake of legality (i.e. not getting my ass sued into oblivion), I am not allowed, in my writings, to name my place of work or identify my co-workers specifically. What I can tell you is that my job as a Special Events Manager has absolutely nothing to do with the business conducted at the place I work at. I am part of a small team in the fundraising department, but the rest of the folks that work at, what I will in the future refer to as, The Facility, are highly trained and specifically skilled. Basically, I have been sitting through two days of a fucking orientation that doesn’t really apply to me.
While I am happy to internalize the uplifting mission statement of The Facility, hearing the fourth person ask me for examples of each facet of the mission statement for the 100th time began to make me wonder why the hell I was there. Do I really want to spend my life in a regular job working regular hours with other suburban consumers highly trained in specialized fields?
As the way too perky training guru gave her never-ending shpeal about how to handle patrons to The Facility, I let my mind wander about everything from how my daughter might be doing at daycare to why Nate Fisher on Six Feet Under continued to hook up with Brenda once he found out her whole family was wacko.
Finally, one hour before lunch, Princess Perky broke us up into groups based on our personalities. I found out today that I’m a Green, or the “planner,” which is good for them considering that I have to start working on their major fundraising auction as soon as I’m done with the redundant, non-applicable bevy of information they are throwing at me. The rest of the personality exercise was humorous, but any sort of amusement ended there.
During the lunch break, I ate an over-priced salad and wandered around The Facility, but there wasn’t much to look at. The Facility I’m training at won’t be the one I will actually work at, because this particular organization has one main facility, a specialized facility, which will be my hub, and satellite facilities.
I pretty much zoned out for the last part of orientation, which has started every morning at 8:00 a.m. sharp. Thank goodness I’m not one of those clock in/clock out people, because I would be so fired. In fact, anymore, to save embarrassment and exasperation, I make sure that any job I take doesn’t require me to be in before 9:00 a.m. and will allow a flexible ten minutes given the flow of Seattle traffic, which I can tell you now sucks major ass.
Tomorrow is the last part of orientation. We will talk about having a sexual harassment free facility. Hopefully, if there is a G-d, we will get to watch another exciting training video to compliment the explanation of the boring policy. Those videos rock! They were all made in the ‘80s so every one of the actors, even the guys, has a really bad hairdo and major shoulder pads. These videos rival porn and local television commercials for the worst acting of all times, and I fear that I enjoy them way too much. I can guarantee you one thing, if they ask for volunteers to do a scenario of a sexual harassment situation; I will scramble to be the harasser.
Hopefully, after lunch when I report to my actual job, all of my fear and trepidation about taking a “regular” job will disappear, and I will lose myself in doing the event. If not, I know I will spend many hours over-analyzing every little detail of my life, my work, my purpose for being, but what can I say, I’m a Green and that’s what we do.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Starving & Chest-Beating: The Many Joys of Yom Kippur
Every year, Jews are required to engage in a ritualistic fast to beg the Almighty for forgiveness for the previous year’s sin. This oh so joyous occasion where you stand for hours reciting prayers admitting that you are unworthy to be there in the first place is known as Yom Kippur. It’s a 24+ hour test of humility that isn’t for the weak.
It begins the night before on Erev Yom Kippur. Although you are supposed to eat a light meal before starting a fast, no one I’ve ever met actually does that. My family, like most others, goes into pig out mode, because if we have to go the next 24 and change without a bite to eat, much like camels with water in their humps, we want to store enough food in our stomachs to last us through the fast. Of course, this logic never works, and despite waking up late the next day, we are always hungry by 3:00 PM.
The difficult part of Yom Kippur, for me, isn’t foregoing food. Fortunately, I live in a shallow, pop culture driven society that trains women in the art of starvation at a very young age. As a teenager, I would go an entire week on a piece of dry toast in the morning and three ounces of tuna fish on a leaf of lettuce at night for dinner. By the end of that week I could barely walk, but my jeans fit perfectly!
The hardest part of Yom Kippur is refraining from drinking. By drinking I don’t mean hitting the bottle and stumbling to bed, I mean no water. On a particularly warm day, which doesn’t happen much in October in the Seattle area, I could drink an entire lake’s worth of water. My non-alcoholic drink of choice has always been water, and I do a minimum of 60 ounces a day. The moment the fast commences, I’m not running for the lox and bagel table, I’m running for the water fountain. Like I said before, the yearly Yom Kippur fast is not for the weak.
Lest all non-Jews think we are a brutal faith, there are definitely exceptions when it comes to fasting. Pregnant and nursing women are exempt, as are children, the elderly and the sick. Everyone else who chooses not to do the fast sighting some bullshit “hypoglycemic” condition gets zero respect from me as well as a constant referral to them as a whiney little bitch. By the end of the day, we all have headaches and are ready to pass out. Everyone in the room is grumpy, tired, thirsty, and ready to eat the wallpaper, but damn it, that’s the beauty of Yom Kippur. How do you expect to be forgiven for all of the bad shit you’ve done over the year if you aren’t willing to suffer just a little bit first. Considering some of the things I’ve done over the year, starving for a few hours is a decent trade.
Other interesting aspects of Yom Kippur involve the specific prayers where you are commanded to knock yourself in the chest every time you recite one of the transgressions such as lying, stealing, talking crap about someone behind their back, etc. Even if you didn’t do one of the items listed, such as stealing, you still have to ask forgiveness for it. The rabbi explains that you may be responsible for doing something bad even if you weren’t aware of it, so you might as well ask for forgiveness just to cover your own ass, in a spiritual sense.
At the end of the day everyone is swaying, trying to stay on their feet, and counting the number of pages left in the prayer book. The rabbi is going into hyper-speed mode trying to finish, because he knows everyone is looking at their watch with a glint in their eye as if to say, “you go one minute over, and I’ll beat you to death with a smoked whitefish.” Then at the blowing of the shofar, an actual ram’s horn that makes a weird, high-pitched noise, it’s over.
Last night, the other ladies and I went to get everything set up, while the guys finished praying. I made sure to start my bagel sandwich before the men were let out of services, because much like a horde of wild boars, they charged the food table pillaging the lox (delicious smoked salmon).
The best part about this yearly ritual is that deep down, I know I don’t have to do it. I’m there starving and beating my chest, because I choose to be. I’ve often heard people who are very atheist or anti-G-d claim that religion is only for the weak. Maybe they are right, but not when it comes to my faith. Jews are the most murdered people throughout history, yet we still persist. For the ten Jews who are standing in a synagogue or gathering place beating their chests on Yom Kippur, there is one who isn’t.
I fast on Yom Kippur and observe traditional services, because I’m one of the ones who is able to, by choice, utilize this method of understanding to try to figure out how to live my life. I may not understand why things happen the way they do, but the clarity I do have is partially credited to my identity, which is a Jewish one. For the rest of the year, I can sit back, relax, and enjoy food, until Yom Kippur rolls around again, when I’ll get to, once again, enjoy the pleasures of light-headedness as I stand in place, praying, starving, beating my chest and begging for forgiveness. Like I said, forgiveness for a year’s worth of bad shit doesn’t come easy.
It begins the night before on Erev Yom Kippur. Although you are supposed to eat a light meal before starting a fast, no one I’ve ever met actually does that. My family, like most others, goes into pig out mode, because if we have to go the next 24 and change without a bite to eat, much like camels with water in their humps, we want to store enough food in our stomachs to last us through the fast. Of course, this logic never works, and despite waking up late the next day, we are always hungry by 3:00 PM.
The difficult part of Yom Kippur, for me, isn’t foregoing food. Fortunately, I live in a shallow, pop culture driven society that trains women in the art of starvation at a very young age. As a teenager, I would go an entire week on a piece of dry toast in the morning and three ounces of tuna fish on a leaf of lettuce at night for dinner. By the end of that week I could barely walk, but my jeans fit perfectly!
The hardest part of Yom Kippur is refraining from drinking. By drinking I don’t mean hitting the bottle and stumbling to bed, I mean no water. On a particularly warm day, which doesn’t happen much in October in the Seattle area, I could drink an entire lake’s worth of water. My non-alcoholic drink of choice has always been water, and I do a minimum of 60 ounces a day. The moment the fast commences, I’m not running for the lox and bagel table, I’m running for the water fountain. Like I said before, the yearly Yom Kippur fast is not for the weak.
Lest all non-Jews think we are a brutal faith, there are definitely exceptions when it comes to fasting. Pregnant and nursing women are exempt, as are children, the elderly and the sick. Everyone else who chooses not to do the fast sighting some bullshit “hypoglycemic” condition gets zero respect from me as well as a constant referral to them as a whiney little bitch. By the end of the day, we all have headaches and are ready to pass out. Everyone in the room is grumpy, tired, thirsty, and ready to eat the wallpaper, but damn it, that’s the beauty of Yom Kippur. How do you expect to be forgiven for all of the bad shit you’ve done over the year if you aren’t willing to suffer just a little bit first. Considering some of the things I’ve done over the year, starving for a few hours is a decent trade.
Other interesting aspects of Yom Kippur involve the specific prayers where you are commanded to knock yourself in the chest every time you recite one of the transgressions such as lying, stealing, talking crap about someone behind their back, etc. Even if you didn’t do one of the items listed, such as stealing, you still have to ask forgiveness for it. The rabbi explains that you may be responsible for doing something bad even if you weren’t aware of it, so you might as well ask for forgiveness just to cover your own ass, in a spiritual sense.
At the end of the day everyone is swaying, trying to stay on their feet, and counting the number of pages left in the prayer book. The rabbi is going into hyper-speed mode trying to finish, because he knows everyone is looking at their watch with a glint in their eye as if to say, “you go one minute over, and I’ll beat you to death with a smoked whitefish.” Then at the blowing of the shofar, an actual ram’s horn that makes a weird, high-pitched noise, it’s over.
Last night, the other ladies and I went to get everything set up, while the guys finished praying. I made sure to start my bagel sandwich before the men were let out of services, because much like a horde of wild boars, they charged the food table pillaging the lox (delicious smoked salmon).
The best part about this yearly ritual is that deep down, I know I don’t have to do it. I’m there starving and beating my chest, because I choose to be. I’ve often heard people who are very atheist or anti-G-d claim that religion is only for the weak. Maybe they are right, but not when it comes to my faith. Jews are the most murdered people throughout history, yet we still persist. For the ten Jews who are standing in a synagogue or gathering place beating their chests on Yom Kippur, there is one who isn’t.
I fast on Yom Kippur and observe traditional services, because I’m one of the ones who is able to, by choice, utilize this method of understanding to try to figure out how to live my life. I may not understand why things happen the way they do, but the clarity I do have is partially credited to my identity, which is a Jewish one. For the rest of the year, I can sit back, relax, and enjoy food, until Yom Kippur rolls around again, when I’ll get to, once again, enjoy the pleasures of light-headedness as I stand in place, praying, starving, beating my chest and begging for forgiveness. Like I said, forgiveness for a year’s worth of bad shit doesn’t come easy.
Friday, October 14, 2005
And Oprah, I Think I'll Miss You Most of All
I start my new job on Monday, and although I’m thrilled to be going back to work after a two year retirement there will be a few things I know I’m going to miss. Of course, the major adjustment will be the reduction in time I’m with Rachael, but there are other, more subtle, aspects to my daily life that are going to no longer be a part of it.
Good-bye to bumming around in my nightgown. Most mornings find me adorned in my sleep apparel of choice and a fuzzy pair of pink, Sketchers slippers. Although I do make an effort to run a brush through my hair after my morning pee, any attempt to glamorize until after my shower ends there. For the most part, I hang out looking like crap until at least 11:00 AM. From now on, I’ll be trading in my slippers for a stylish pair of slacks, while exchanging my steel cut oatmeal that takes 20 minutes to cook for a cereal bar or a piece of gum.
I’m thankful for the time I’ve had to familiarize myself with nearly every game that MSN has to offer. I have scored several sweet badges in my badge album and accumulated many lifetime point awards. I’ve also been able to reach over 1 million in Rocket Mania; an accomplishment that is incredibly minute and completely asinine.
My afternoons will be filled with meaningful work from now on as opposed to my usual schedule: 1:00 PM – Days of Our Lives, 2:00 PM – Passions, and 3:00 PM – Oprah, with the option to watch Days of Our Lives on Soap Net at 4:00 PM if I missed the 1:00 PM airing. I remember when I was extremely pregnant and had finished working to go on maternity leave from my former job. Jeff made the snide remark that I would probably start watching soap operas. I denied this vehemently, but those beacons of overdone plots, mediocre acting, and complete detachment from reality made their way into my life as a captive mommy whose new baby wanted nothing more than to be held for hours on end.
Aside from my two soaps, there’s Oprah. Oh the many afternoons I will miss watching her attempt to do poignant recaps of the careers of celebrities I couldn’t give two shits less about. I don’t care about their overpaid careers, over dramatized personal lives, or what they have to say about their life, yet I watch faithfully, and I’ve never known why. Maybe Oprah has some magic spell that she weaves over the television viewing audience as well as those crazy bitches in the studio who seem to lose it every time she her voice articulates a word with a drawn out emphasis. Only Oprah could elicit the type of hysterical screaming that would cause me to jump up from a challenging game of Rocket Mania to turn the volume down on the t.v. lest the shouts wake the light sleeper who has only been down for a nap for an hour.
It’s always such an amazing site to see. Oprah standing in her studio introducing some tabloid bunny after trying to make her seem relevant: “Here she is Jennifeeeer Aaaannnistoooon.” Commence hysterical screaming from women!?! The scary thing is that I think Oprah could use that same articulation introducing anyone and she would most likely generate the exact same reaction. “Here he is live via satellite from maximum security prison, the BeeeeeeTeeeeeKaaaaay Killeeeeer!” Commence hysterical screaming.
Despite my recognition of this absurd level of pop culture worshipping mishagas I will miss the fair lady Oprah. I will also miss the 100,000 phone calls each day I get from Jeff asking me what I’m doing. Oh wait, actually those won’t stop, he’ll still call me endlessly like he has from the day we met.
To my credit, during many of those Oprah, Days, and Passions episodes, I did write several chapters of my new book. I also managed to raise a very alert, intelligent, curious, happy little toddler who knows how to count to ten, say “thank you” and “you’re welcome,” and can name most of the characters on Noggin.
All I can say now that my free-wheeling days are numbered is: Thank G-d I Have a Fucking Job Again! A listless and boring life of hanging out, playing video games, watching t.v. and playing with kids might be great if I was a 14 year old guy, but as a 32 year old woman with drive, ambition, and a work ethic, staying at home doing nothing sucks major ass.
I’m happy to retire from my retirement, and I’ll be driving to work next Monday with a smile on my face, sipping my large thermal cup of coffee, catching a few minutes of Howard Stern, and figuring out a way to make some quality computer game time during the weekend.
Good-bye to bumming around in my nightgown. Most mornings find me adorned in my sleep apparel of choice and a fuzzy pair of pink, Sketchers slippers. Although I do make an effort to run a brush through my hair after my morning pee, any attempt to glamorize until after my shower ends there. For the most part, I hang out looking like crap until at least 11:00 AM. From now on, I’ll be trading in my slippers for a stylish pair of slacks, while exchanging my steel cut oatmeal that takes 20 minutes to cook for a cereal bar or a piece of gum.
I’m thankful for the time I’ve had to familiarize myself with nearly every game that MSN has to offer. I have scored several sweet badges in my badge album and accumulated many lifetime point awards. I’ve also been able to reach over 1 million in Rocket Mania; an accomplishment that is incredibly minute and completely asinine.
My afternoons will be filled with meaningful work from now on as opposed to my usual schedule: 1:00 PM – Days of Our Lives, 2:00 PM – Passions, and 3:00 PM – Oprah, with the option to watch Days of Our Lives on Soap Net at 4:00 PM if I missed the 1:00 PM airing. I remember when I was extremely pregnant and had finished working to go on maternity leave from my former job. Jeff made the snide remark that I would probably start watching soap operas. I denied this vehemently, but those beacons of overdone plots, mediocre acting, and complete detachment from reality made their way into my life as a captive mommy whose new baby wanted nothing more than to be held for hours on end.
Aside from my two soaps, there’s Oprah. Oh the many afternoons I will miss watching her attempt to do poignant recaps of the careers of celebrities I couldn’t give two shits less about. I don’t care about their overpaid careers, over dramatized personal lives, or what they have to say about their life, yet I watch faithfully, and I’ve never known why. Maybe Oprah has some magic spell that she weaves over the television viewing audience as well as those crazy bitches in the studio who seem to lose it every time she her voice articulates a word with a drawn out emphasis. Only Oprah could elicit the type of hysterical screaming that would cause me to jump up from a challenging game of Rocket Mania to turn the volume down on the t.v. lest the shouts wake the light sleeper who has only been down for a nap for an hour.
It’s always such an amazing site to see. Oprah standing in her studio introducing some tabloid bunny after trying to make her seem relevant: “Here she is Jennifeeeer Aaaannnistoooon.” Commence hysterical screaming from women!?! The scary thing is that I think Oprah could use that same articulation introducing anyone and she would most likely generate the exact same reaction. “Here he is live via satellite from maximum security prison, the BeeeeeeTeeeeeKaaaaay Killeeeeer!” Commence hysterical screaming.
Despite my recognition of this absurd level of pop culture worshipping mishagas I will miss the fair lady Oprah. I will also miss the 100,000 phone calls each day I get from Jeff asking me what I’m doing. Oh wait, actually those won’t stop, he’ll still call me endlessly like he has from the day we met.
To my credit, during many of those Oprah, Days, and Passions episodes, I did write several chapters of my new book. I also managed to raise a very alert, intelligent, curious, happy little toddler who knows how to count to ten, say “thank you” and “you’re welcome,” and can name most of the characters on Noggin.
All I can say now that my free-wheeling days are numbered is: Thank G-d I Have a Fucking Job Again! A listless and boring life of hanging out, playing video games, watching t.v. and playing with kids might be great if I was a 14 year old guy, but as a 32 year old woman with drive, ambition, and a work ethic, staying at home doing nothing sucks major ass.
I’m happy to retire from my retirement, and I’ll be driving to work next Monday with a smile on my face, sipping my large thermal cup of coffee, catching a few minutes of Howard Stern, and figuring out a way to make some quality computer game time during the weekend.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
"Winners Don't Use Drugs"
There are some things in life that always seem to hit you funny, like finding that list you made in high school of the qualities you were looking for in your perfect mate. My perfect man had to have long, dark hair, be completely into Metallica, and willing to let me have Saturday nights to watch the Headbanger’s Ball with my friends, Christina and Christina. It’s 14 years later; both Christinas are gone as is the Headbanger’s Ball (at least the one that I loved), and the only thing my husband has in common with my high school age “perfect man” list is that he is, indeed, a man.
I was struck funny by something else this last weekend when Jeff and I decided to take Rachael on a family fun adventure to a place in Issaquah called Illusionz. Illusionz is one of those places that are an indoor activity center for kids during the day, and at night turns into the only place suburban teenagers can hang out and hook up without having to find a shopping mall. We went on a Sunday afternoon and the place was absolutely dead, which means no waiting in line for us. Yippee!
I took Rachael over to the enormous little kids play area filled with climbing decks, ball pits, slides and tons of colorful matting. After performing some championship wrestling holds on her in order to remove her shoes per the play area rules, she took off like a carjacker with Jeff in tow. As the two of them enjoyed climbing, sliding down, and more climbing, I decided to peruse the arcade. I was never much of a gamer, but every now and again like to partake in electronic video action as long as the controllers don’t have too many buttons and require a tremendous amount of skill and coordination.
Illusionz is a cool place, not because of the variety of games or the laser tag arena or even the obstacle castle that my munchkin spent most of the day conquering, no, this fun center rocks, because they carry Tron, Centipede, Mrs. Pac Man, Donkey Kong, and a few other games left over from the olden days (i.e. the ‘80s). I spent several Illusionz card credits trying to best my former Mrs. Pac Man score, unfortunately the game there had somewhat of a delayed joystick. Yeah, that’s right, the joystick was delayed. I did a few rounds of Tron, one quick game of Donkey Kong, and after indulging my nostalgia went to look for the shooting games.
I agree with most of the concerned mothers out there that some of the games produced nowadays contain way too much violence, but I also grew up in Idaho, so shooting can be something fun to do as long as your target isn’t human. For the record, I have never hunted anything, but have cousins who do. Personally, I believe the only correct way to hunt is to arm the game animals, dress the hunters in their underwear and cover them with cat piss, and then it’s a fair fight.
I took up a few shooting games and noticed one quirky message on all of the machines. After a good round of using the plastic rifle or Uzi with the neat, see-all scope to blow your opponent to hell and back, the game would end with a recap of your hits that included your kills, misses, and accuracy percentage. Then a weird message, complete with a government seal from the DEA would appear that blared “Winners Don’t Use Drugs”.
I guess this is true, winners don’t use drugs, but losers don’t necessarily use drugs either, and what about the people in between who aren’t trying to win or lose, they may or may not use drugs depending on the situation. I guess, according to the DEA, “Winners don’t use drugs,” instead winners take all that drug-using energy and spend it blowing the absolute fuck out of the animated adversary on the video game screen.
I’ve always been amazed at the government’s ass-backward approach to drugs. Most of our politicians live and run on the generous dole of pharmaceutical companies and refuse to make prescription drug advertisements on t.v. illegal, but if a hippie at a String Cheese Incident concert smokes a joint, then there’s a problem. I don’t get it. In my lifetime, I’ve been to alcohol parties and I’ve been to pot parties, and I can tell you that those pot parties never ended in a five-man fight with the police and an ambulance being called.
It’s fine if the government wants to send a positive message to kids, but to do it using a video game where you get an extra 600 points for shooting someone in the head as opposed to the body might not be the most effective means of transmission.
On the other hand, it’s funny. I had a wonderful laugh, which made me feel good after only nailing a lousy 78% accuracy rate. Next time I’ll have to make more of an effort to snipe at the guy’s head as I try my hardest to win by staying away from drugs.
I was struck funny by something else this last weekend when Jeff and I decided to take Rachael on a family fun adventure to a place in Issaquah called Illusionz. Illusionz is one of those places that are an indoor activity center for kids during the day, and at night turns into the only place suburban teenagers can hang out and hook up without having to find a shopping mall. We went on a Sunday afternoon and the place was absolutely dead, which means no waiting in line for us. Yippee!
I took Rachael over to the enormous little kids play area filled with climbing decks, ball pits, slides and tons of colorful matting. After performing some championship wrestling holds on her in order to remove her shoes per the play area rules, she took off like a carjacker with Jeff in tow. As the two of them enjoyed climbing, sliding down, and more climbing, I decided to peruse the arcade. I was never much of a gamer, but every now and again like to partake in electronic video action as long as the controllers don’t have too many buttons and require a tremendous amount of skill and coordination.
Illusionz is a cool place, not because of the variety of games or the laser tag arena or even the obstacle castle that my munchkin spent most of the day conquering, no, this fun center rocks, because they carry Tron, Centipede, Mrs. Pac Man, Donkey Kong, and a few other games left over from the olden days (i.e. the ‘80s). I spent several Illusionz card credits trying to best my former Mrs. Pac Man score, unfortunately the game there had somewhat of a delayed joystick. Yeah, that’s right, the joystick was delayed. I did a few rounds of Tron, one quick game of Donkey Kong, and after indulging my nostalgia went to look for the shooting games.
I agree with most of the concerned mothers out there that some of the games produced nowadays contain way too much violence, but I also grew up in Idaho, so shooting can be something fun to do as long as your target isn’t human. For the record, I have never hunted anything, but have cousins who do. Personally, I believe the only correct way to hunt is to arm the game animals, dress the hunters in their underwear and cover them with cat piss, and then it’s a fair fight.
I took up a few shooting games and noticed one quirky message on all of the machines. After a good round of using the plastic rifle or Uzi with the neat, see-all scope to blow your opponent to hell and back, the game would end with a recap of your hits that included your kills, misses, and accuracy percentage. Then a weird message, complete with a government seal from the DEA would appear that blared “Winners Don’t Use Drugs”.
I guess this is true, winners don’t use drugs, but losers don’t necessarily use drugs either, and what about the people in between who aren’t trying to win or lose, they may or may not use drugs depending on the situation. I guess, according to the DEA, “Winners don’t use drugs,” instead winners take all that drug-using energy and spend it blowing the absolute fuck out of the animated adversary on the video game screen.
I’ve always been amazed at the government’s ass-backward approach to drugs. Most of our politicians live and run on the generous dole of pharmaceutical companies and refuse to make prescription drug advertisements on t.v. illegal, but if a hippie at a String Cheese Incident concert smokes a joint, then there’s a problem. I don’t get it. In my lifetime, I’ve been to alcohol parties and I’ve been to pot parties, and I can tell you that those pot parties never ended in a five-man fight with the police and an ambulance being called.
It’s fine if the government wants to send a positive message to kids, but to do it using a video game where you get an extra 600 points for shooting someone in the head as opposed to the body might not be the most effective means of transmission.
On the other hand, it’s funny. I had a wonderful laugh, which made me feel good after only nailing a lousy 78% accuracy rate. Next time I’ll have to make more of an effort to snipe at the guy’s head as I try my hardest to win by staying away from drugs.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Looking Back on '65
Rosh Hashanah is the official celebration that welcomes in the Jewish New Year. It is a time when every Jew looks back at the year previous and takes a personal assessment of the events and their own actions. It’s also a good time to make a list of everything you are going to have to atone for in a few weeks when Yom Kippur rolls around.
When I look back at 5765, all I can say is that it started out shitty. Last Rosh Hashanah, we packed up the baby and went to a place called Camp Long in West Seattle. The main hall where the services and meals were held was nice, heated, and had a very friendly, comforting vibe. We intended to stay in one of the rustic looking cabins, but the moment I walked into it, I knew that we were leaving in between services. All I can say about those cabins is that perhaps having a Jewish thing in a place where the sleeping accommodations look very similar to concentration camp barracks isn’t such a good idea. Jeff nearly had a shit when he walked into the small room with wooden bunks. He called his uncle to tell him that right now we were sitting in either “Auschwitz or Dachau Cabin 12”.
Despite our questionable accommodations, that wasn’t the bad part. The bad part happened on our second night celebration when my sister called me panicked, because my mother had lost all movement and control of the left side of her body. Here I was at an orthodox Rosh Hashanah service on my cell phone, which is a big “no no” trying to talk my stepdad into taking Mom to the emergency room. In the end, after making a phone call to my Mom’s doctor, I knew that the brain tumor she had successfully fought back in 2000 had returned.
The next seven weeks of my life were spent commuting between Boise and Seattle trying to spend as much time with my mom as possible. Two weeks after we celebrated her 49th birthday, we buried her in a nice cemetery near the home she loved dearly.
Reflecting on the rest of 5765, all I can say is that it was somewhat uneventful and seems to have gone by so fast. We moved to our picturesque suburb in January. I spent the next few months desperately in love with my house, until Spring brought me clarity and I realized what the term “velvet sweatshop” meant. The realization that I was a punk stuck in Suburbia caused me to enter therapy shortly after celebrating both my sister’s and Jeff’s graduation where they received graduate degrees. I ditched therapy around mid-July when I started this blog.
I guess most of the positive highlights from this year came from my baby munchkin who started walking, talking, and, much to my chagrin, making demands. She developed a stubborn streak, a desire for all things Dora the Explorer, and has become quite the fashionista picking out her own outfits as well as going out of her way to tell me “yes” and “no” when I venture into the store’s dressing room with a variety of new shirts. Together we traveled across country to visit my Italian family in Connecticut, and enjoyed lazy afternoons at home. I took her to her first concert, and sent her to pre-school.
5766 will be quite a different year. I will begin working full-time again soon, which means Rachael will start daycare. I’m not too nervous about this since she is the only child in her pre-school class who will wave “goodbye” to me when I drop her off and cry when I pick her up. I guess she’s too young to utter the words, “Hey Ma, don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”
Rachael and I will make another solo trip across country in December to see my sister’s new baby; a little girl who will be born on Halloween, which was the freaky request of my brother-in-law. I look forward to finishing the book I’m currently working on, and possibly getting it published. I also am confident that I’ll be at my weight goal by the time we head out for our next big vacation in August.
I’m also looking forward to the complete implosion of the neo-con empire that has ruled with an evil iron fist over this country for the past six years, and will be incredibly delighted when people on the left and right clean house in the next major election. After all, the only good politician is a first or second term politician, after that they become tainted by power and money and let us good folks fall by the wayside.
Mostly, I hope by this time next year, I’m celebrating Rosh Hashanah 5767 with the same family, immediate and extended, that I have now, with health, happiness, and additions rather than subtractions.
When I look back at 5765, all I can say is that it started out shitty. Last Rosh Hashanah, we packed up the baby and went to a place called Camp Long in West Seattle. The main hall where the services and meals were held was nice, heated, and had a very friendly, comforting vibe. We intended to stay in one of the rustic looking cabins, but the moment I walked into it, I knew that we were leaving in between services. All I can say about those cabins is that perhaps having a Jewish thing in a place where the sleeping accommodations look very similar to concentration camp barracks isn’t such a good idea. Jeff nearly had a shit when he walked into the small room with wooden bunks. He called his uncle to tell him that right now we were sitting in either “Auschwitz or Dachau Cabin 12”.
Despite our questionable accommodations, that wasn’t the bad part. The bad part happened on our second night celebration when my sister called me panicked, because my mother had lost all movement and control of the left side of her body. Here I was at an orthodox Rosh Hashanah service on my cell phone, which is a big “no no” trying to talk my stepdad into taking Mom to the emergency room. In the end, after making a phone call to my Mom’s doctor, I knew that the brain tumor she had successfully fought back in 2000 had returned.
The next seven weeks of my life were spent commuting between Boise and Seattle trying to spend as much time with my mom as possible. Two weeks after we celebrated her 49th birthday, we buried her in a nice cemetery near the home she loved dearly.
Reflecting on the rest of 5765, all I can say is that it was somewhat uneventful and seems to have gone by so fast. We moved to our picturesque suburb in January. I spent the next few months desperately in love with my house, until Spring brought me clarity and I realized what the term “velvet sweatshop” meant. The realization that I was a punk stuck in Suburbia caused me to enter therapy shortly after celebrating both my sister’s and Jeff’s graduation where they received graduate degrees. I ditched therapy around mid-July when I started this blog.
I guess most of the positive highlights from this year came from my baby munchkin who started walking, talking, and, much to my chagrin, making demands. She developed a stubborn streak, a desire for all things Dora the Explorer, and has become quite the fashionista picking out her own outfits as well as going out of her way to tell me “yes” and “no” when I venture into the store’s dressing room with a variety of new shirts. Together we traveled across country to visit my Italian family in Connecticut, and enjoyed lazy afternoons at home. I took her to her first concert, and sent her to pre-school.
5766 will be quite a different year. I will begin working full-time again soon, which means Rachael will start daycare. I’m not too nervous about this since she is the only child in her pre-school class who will wave “goodbye” to me when I drop her off and cry when I pick her up. I guess she’s too young to utter the words, “Hey Ma, don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”
Rachael and I will make another solo trip across country in December to see my sister’s new baby; a little girl who will be born on Halloween, which was the freaky request of my brother-in-law. I look forward to finishing the book I’m currently working on, and possibly getting it published. I also am confident that I’ll be at my weight goal by the time we head out for our next big vacation in August.
I’m also looking forward to the complete implosion of the neo-con empire that has ruled with an evil iron fist over this country for the past six years, and will be incredibly delighted when people on the left and right clean house in the next major election. After all, the only good politician is a first or second term politician, after that they become tainted by power and money and let us good folks fall by the wayside.
Mostly, I hope by this time next year, I’m celebrating Rosh Hashanah 5767 with the same family, immediate and extended, that I have now, with health, happiness, and additions rather than subtractions.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)