Saw this woman the other day wearing sandals, and both her pinkie toes pointed straight up to the sky, like they were permanently having tea with the queen.
PS Never, ever look up images of feet online.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
The queen, tea and toes
Saw this woman the other day wearing sandals, and both her pinkie toes pointed straight up to the sky, like they were permanently having tea with the queen.
PS Never, ever look up images of feet online.
Transvestights
It will come as no surprise that my family are National Public Radio (NPR) freaks. Growing up we were tuned in to NPR in the mornings while we got ready for work/school and everywhere we went in the car (except for the phase mom went through that involved buying tapes to listen to in the Chevet: RunDMC and Twisted Sister come to mind. It IS tricky to rock a rhyme, to rock a rhyme that's right on time, by the way.)
NPR is a hard habit to kick, and I'm an avid user now as an adult. I used heavily while pregnant and am hoping Cam has it coursing through his veins. I even got my husband addicted. Everyone I know is addicted and whenever we're together we like to get high on the news.
Conversations in my circle go like this:
Me: "Could you believe about that zoo in Gaza?"
(Turning away from friend.)
"Grande skim latte with whip cream, please."
Friend: "Well, All Things Considered, finding those Lions after so many days was miraculous. Venti chai latte, thanks."
Me: "Hahahaha. Good one. It's so sad, though. Anyway, did you hear what Cokie said? Kills me. So smart, so funny."
Friend: "Totally. She's my hero."
Me: "I know, right? I'd love to have her for dinner, but then I'd feel really stupid."
Notice we need not mention NPR or the day and time we listened, and that we feel as though Cokie (born Mary Martha Corinne Morrison Claiborne Boggs, which I just learned today) Roberts has been a friend since our moms could leave us in the Chevet with the windows cracked while they went grocery shopping for an hour. I spent that time shaving my legs with the razor ma left in the glove-compartment box, often listening to NPR. Or the Chariots of Fire soundtrack.
Anyway, this is a long run up for my point. I am emailed NPR news, and I recently read about an organization in San Francisco that was gathering hair clippings from salons, stuffing that hair in nylons/tights and sending it to Louisiana as human-hair booms are a natural way to soak up oil. The problem they were running into was that they had an abundance of hair, but no one wears stocking anymore. Except, that is, for the transvestite community, which has come forth a-plenty and saved the day.
And I just love the irony in that a stretch of Republican Louisiana beach, albeit only a very small section perhaps, will be saved because of transvestights.
If you'd like to listen to this most excellent story, go to this NPR link! An excerpt from All Things Considered.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
2010 UK Election -- Continued!
Congratulations to the U.K. for having a civilized political system. Love, hate, or don't care about politics, most countries (ahem, I'm talking to you, America) could learn a lot: like a 6-week campaign and a president/Prime Minister who steps down graciously even though he doesn't have to legally.
European elections, in general, are far shorter, cost far less and focus on far more important issues than the U.S. Where that leaves us, US(!), is candidates spending millions to billions to get elected (or not), candidates who dither over small and small-minded issues, and politicians who are frightened into inaction weeks into their terms because they want to get re-elected and god forbid they do something unpopular two years before the next race.
Naturally I can't find the source right now, but a few years back CNN lined up all the Western European heads of state and said how much money they were allowed to spend on campaigns. They're helped out by things like free TV ads (Britain) and other public funding, but by our standards it was laughable -- hundreds of thousands of dollars to a million or two max for Prime Ministers and Presidents.
I could have cried for joy when British politicians said abortion was not a campaign issue. At the time, Europe had been discussing new late-term abortion research for weeks, but both front runners said no, not our issue. On their radar, yes. Of concern, yes. But they preferred to go head-to-head on matters that were more pressing for a greater percentage of the public.
The U.K., Germany and Spain are all fairly religious places, yet you don't hear about it in politics, or daily life, really. God, like abortions, is a personal choice, not one to be discussed on air. Germany to this day doesn't have separation of church and state. Church tax comes out of your paycheck automatically unless you opt out. But then you can never get married in any church in the entire country. Spain is synonymous with Catholicism, and Henry the VIII invented something new to allow him to divorce. Europe is a churchy place -- you can't swing a cat without hitting a cathedral in any city or village, but shucks, folks. It's not worn on your sleeve. No ones talks about WWJD, if they believe, they just do.
Less talk, more action. It's refreshing.
Bon voyage, Mr. Brown. Valiant effort, and like anyone in a position that high (ack, erk, ouch, it hurts -- even Bush), you did what you thought was best at the time.
Good luck, Mr. Cameron. It's a poisoned chalice these days. Filled to the brim with an aging accelerant.
European elections, in general, are far shorter, cost far less and focus on far more important issues than the U.S. Where that leaves us, US(!), is candidates spending millions to billions to get elected (or not), candidates who dither over small and small-minded issues, and politicians who are frightened into inaction weeks into their terms because they want to get re-elected and god forbid they do something unpopular two years before the next race.
Naturally I can't find the source right now, but a few years back CNN lined up all the Western European heads of state and said how much money they were allowed to spend on campaigns. They're helped out by things like free TV ads (Britain) and other public funding, but by our standards it was laughable -- hundreds of thousands of dollars to a million or two max for Prime Ministers and Presidents.
I could have cried for joy when British politicians said abortion was not a campaign issue. At the time, Europe had been discussing new late-term abortion research for weeks, but both front runners said no, not our issue. On their radar, yes. Of concern, yes. But they preferred to go head-to-head on matters that were more pressing for a greater percentage of the public.
The U.K., Germany and Spain are all fairly religious places, yet you don't hear about it in politics, or daily life, really. God, like abortions, is a personal choice, not one to be discussed on air. Germany to this day doesn't have separation of church and state. Church tax comes out of your paycheck automatically unless you opt out. But then you can never get married in any church in the entire country. Spain is synonymous with Catholicism, and Henry the VIII invented something new to allow him to divorce. Europe is a churchy place -- you can't swing a cat without hitting a cathedral in any city or village, but shucks, folks. It's not worn on your sleeve. No ones talks about WWJD, if they believe, they just do.
Less talk, more action. It's refreshing.
Bon voyage, Mr. Brown. Valiant effort, and like anyone in a position that high (ack, erk, ouch, it hurts -- even Bush), you did what you thought was best at the time.
Good luck, Mr. Cameron. It's a poisoned chalice these days. Filled to the brim with an aging accelerant.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
2010 UK Elections
I’m going to totally muddle this, so don’t take it as gospel:
1. No one in the UK votes. At least no one under the age of 80. No one I met in the UK ever did.
2. The system is a lot like here. Largely a two-party system, though they have smaller parties that are usually regional (like Plaid Cymru in Wales). And the Queen has nothing to do with it whatsoever.
3. There's the House of Commons (literally, commoners, as in, Les Mis, “let them eat cake,” non-royal piss ants) who are elected by other peasants. Then there is the House of Lords, who are royals, Lords by birth or as assigned by the Queen/King.
4. The Prime Minister belongs to the House of Commons. The prime minister’s party has to have the majority in parliament in order to gain/maintain his position. So each county/borough/Podunk election (aka the local elections voting for MPs (Members of Parliament, not the PM) has to be won by the winning political party to see their candidate become PM.
5. If there is no clear majority (as is the case now), it’s called a hung parliament, and the existing PM may choose to resign or remain in place until…this is where I get foggy…there’s another election, or two parties come together to form a majority, because if you don’t have the majority vote, nothing gets passed unless the MPs cross party lines to vote with an opposing party.
6. So as I understand it, general elections are every 5 years, or can be called at any time by the PM in cases of the MPs/country voicing no confidence in the PM and his government (which means the MPs in the PM’s party who run the show). There were calls for Brown to call for a general election a few years ago, called by Cameron, but Brown didn’t pick up the phone, or his voicemail or the message in general.
7. By our terms, Brown is now a lame duck. A place holder. He won’t get anything passed, no one takes him seriously, vote of non-confidence. One of few PMs who haven’t resigned in his current predicament. Kinda stickin’ around just in case, and to make sure the entire country doesn’t spiral into the depths of abysmal economic hell.
8. David Cameron is the leader of the Conservative party (aka the Tories), their choice for PM. He is also a Shadow Minister in the Shadow Cabinet (leader of the opposition of the current Brown/Labor government, as he is the leader of the 2nd largest party in the UK at the moment -- prior to this election.) He is also a member of the privy council (don’t ask). So had the Conservatives won the majority, Cameron would have become PM.
Tories, Whigs, Shadow Ministers…I mean, you can see where the Harry Potter lady got her fodder. I thought treacle was one of her fictitious desserts until I moved to the UK, when I found that it is indeed a golden syrup-y item to be poured on cake. Which they call sponge. Cake/sponge, what we call desserts, are, according to the Brits, in an after dinner category called pudding (dessert).
If you think their government is confusing, try going out to eat. Because there’s lunch and dinner and tea, all of which are interchangeable depending on the family you’re eating with. So if someone invites you over for tea, you may get hot liquid in porcelain or an entire evening meal (usually takeout). And if you want pudding, they ask, “what kind?” and you say chocolate, and they are confused and bring you a bar of chocolate, not J-e-l-l-o pudding. And then they say, “would you like some spotted dick instead?” and you say, “Whoa, what kind of dinner party is this? No thanks, I’m not fond of venereal diseases,” and they say, “What? Crazy American. It’s a sponge.” And you say, “You want me to do the dishes?” and they say, “Crazy American. Spotted dick is a sponge with treacle on top, it’s a pudding you have after tea.” And you scream, “is it cake or pudding or a sponge -- and you haven’t even offered me tea or coffee yet!?!”
Suffice it to say, I don't know dick about British politics. This might help:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elections_in_the_United_Kingdom
1. No one in the UK votes. At least no one under the age of 80. No one I met in the UK ever did.
2. The system is a lot like here. Largely a two-party system, though they have smaller parties that are usually regional (like Plaid Cymru in Wales). And the Queen has nothing to do with it whatsoever.
3. There's the House of Commons (literally, commoners, as in, Les Mis, “let them eat cake,” non-royal piss ants) who are elected by other peasants. Then there is the House of Lords, who are royals, Lords by birth or as assigned by the Queen/King.
4. The Prime Minister belongs to the House of Commons. The prime minister’s party has to have the majority in parliament in order to gain/maintain his position. So each county/borough/Podunk election (aka the local elections voting for MPs (Members of Parliament, not the PM) has to be won by the winning political party to see their candidate become PM.
5. If there is no clear majority (as is the case now), it’s called a hung parliament, and the existing PM may choose to resign or remain in place until…this is where I get foggy…there’s another election, or two parties come together to form a majority, because if you don’t have the majority vote, nothing gets passed unless the MPs cross party lines to vote with an opposing party.
6. So as I understand it, general elections are every 5 years, or can be called at any time by the PM in cases of the MPs/country voicing no confidence in the PM and his government (which means the MPs in the PM’s party who run the show). There were calls for Brown to call for a general election a few years ago, called by Cameron, but Brown didn’t pick up the phone, or his voicemail or the message in general.
7. By our terms, Brown is now a lame duck. A place holder. He won’t get anything passed, no one takes him seriously, vote of non-confidence. One of few PMs who haven’t resigned in his current predicament. Kinda stickin’ around just in case, and to make sure the entire country doesn’t spiral into the depths of abysmal economic hell.
8. David Cameron is the leader of the Conservative party (aka the Tories), their choice for PM. He is also a Shadow Minister in the Shadow Cabinet (leader of the opposition of the current Brown/Labor government, as he is the leader of the 2nd largest party in the UK at the moment -- prior to this election.) He is also a member of the privy council (don’t ask). So had the Conservatives won the majority, Cameron would have become PM.
Tories, Whigs, Shadow Ministers…I mean, you can see where the Harry Potter lady got her fodder. I thought treacle was one of her fictitious desserts until I moved to the UK, when I found that it is indeed a golden syrup-y item to be poured on cake. Which they call sponge. Cake/sponge, what we call desserts, are, according to the Brits, in an after dinner category called pudding (dessert).
If you think their government is confusing, try going out to eat. Because there’s lunch and dinner and tea, all of which are interchangeable depending on the family you’re eating with. So if someone invites you over for tea, you may get hot liquid in porcelain or an entire evening meal (usually takeout). And if you want pudding, they ask, “what kind?” and you say chocolate, and they are confused and bring you a bar of chocolate, not J-e-l-l-o pudding. And then they say, “would you like some spotted dick instead?” and you say, “Whoa, what kind of dinner party is this? No thanks, I’m not fond of venereal diseases,” and they say, “What? Crazy American. It’s a sponge.” And you say, “You want me to do the dishes?” and they say, “Crazy American. Spotted dick is a sponge with treacle on top, it’s a pudding you have after tea.” And you scream, “is it cake or pudding or a sponge -- and you haven’t even offered me tea or coffee yet!?!”
Suffice it to say, I don't know dick about British politics. This might help:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elections_in_the_United_Kingdom
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Fly the Friendly Skies My Ass
There has been serious talk in our household of moving to Texas, most likely Houston. Here is my 20-second word association with Texas. Go:
Bush
Christian fanatics
Tornadoes
BBQ
Blinding humidity
Raging lunatic Republicans
Bush
Inadequate educations
Big Hair
Waco
NRA
Bible belt
Dallas Cowboys
Obesity (minus the above's cheerleaders)
Hurricanes
Aaaaaaaaand time.
Now, before you say, "but Lindsay, you've never been to Texas," I'm going to say this: I've never been to the Gaza Strip, but I don't fancy living there either.
This is not the time to dive into politics or religion, no, no. I don't want people to think I'm misunderestimating their intelligence by using any loquaciously sneaky strategery. I will take higher ground, literally, because I heard somewhere that if you can't say something nice, talk about the weather.
Shoot, they say a picture is worth a thousand words, let's save some ink. I will leave you with Bush quotes, talking in, or about, Texas. The first picture is of the 342 category 3-5 tornadoes in Texas from 1950-2008, the second is of the hurricanes that have hit Texas from 1886-1996 (ergo, not including the last 14 years):
.bmp)
"There's an old saying in Tennessee — I know it's in Texas, probably in Tennessee — that says, fool me once, shame on — shame on you. Fool me — you can't get fooled again." —Nashville, Tenn., Sept. 17, 2002
"There's no question about it. Wall Street got drunk -- that's one of the reasons I asked you to turn off the TV cameras -- it got drunk and now it's got a hangover. The question is how long will it sober up and not try to do all these fancy financial instruments." — Speaking at a private fundraiser and surreptitiously recorded by a reporter with the footage subsequently leaked on various news outlets, Houston, Texas, July 18, 2008[19]
P.S. I would very nearly move there anyway just to grow morbidly obese on BBQ.
Bush
Christian fanatics
Tornadoes
BBQ
Blinding humidity
Raging lunatic Republicans
Bush
Inadequate educations
Big Hair
Waco
NRA
Bible belt
Dallas Cowboys
Obesity (minus the above's cheerleaders)
Hurricanes
Aaaaaaaaand time.
Now, before you say, "but Lindsay, you've never been to Texas," I'm going to say this: I've never been to the Gaza Strip, but I don't fancy living there either.
This is not the time to dive into politics or religion, no, no. I don't want people to think I'm misunderestimating their intelligence by using any loquaciously sneaky strategery. I will take higher ground, literally, because I heard somewhere that if you can't say something nice, talk about the weather.
Shoot, they say a picture is worth a thousand words, let's save some ink. I will leave you with Bush quotes, talking in, or about, Texas. The first picture is of the 342 category 3-5 tornadoes in Texas from 1950-2008, the second is of the hurricanes that have hit Texas from 1886-1996 (ergo, not including the last 14 years):
.bmp)
"There's an old saying in Tennessee — I know it's in Texas, probably in Tennessee — that says, fool me once, shame on — shame on you. Fool me — you can't get fooled again." —Nashville, Tenn., Sept. 17, 2002
"There's no question about it. Wall Street got drunk -- that's one of the reasons I asked you to turn off the TV cameras -- it got drunk and now it's got a hangover. The question is how long will it sober up and not try to do all these fancy financial instruments." — Speaking at a private fundraiser and surreptitiously recorded by a reporter with the footage subsequently leaked on various news outlets, Houston, Texas, July 18, 2008[19] P.S. I would very nearly move there anyway just to grow morbidly obese on BBQ.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Little Einstein
What is illiterate, wears Elmo undies and costs nearly as much to send to pre-school for a year as it would a 19-year-old valedictorian with a penchant for quantum physics to an Ivy League university? That would be my three-in-September-year old.
Let's just look at the facts (if not the math, which has never been my strength -- read it people: B.A. in Spanish).
Princeton, Yale, Stanford: $35,000-$38,000 annual tuition
The University of Oregon: $7,500 annual tuition
Jersey City Montessori Toddler program: $18,800 base annual tuition
Extended day (7:30am-6pm): add $4,200
Application fee: $75
Non-refundable tuition deposit: $1,500
Materials fee: $300
Insurance fee: 1.76% of base tuition (in our case, $3,300)
One-time, new-family fee: $1,000
Grand total: $29,175.
Here I would like to add that according to Montessori, the optimum number of kids per class is 36.
Check my math, please. Because no matter how I add that up, I can't figure out how it costs as much to send my 3-year-old boy (who gets excited by the color blue, and finding and eating yesterday's Cheerio under the couch) to school for one year as it cost me to get an undergraduate degree.
Don't get me wrong, there is a lot of hand-holding and nose-wiping at college. I read a great Time Magazine article about "helicopter parents," the ones who hover over their pre-adult children -- even sleeping on dorm-room floors! -- instead of kicking them out of a still-rolling car near the admissions building. But still!
There's so much that bothers me about paying $30,000 per year for Montessori. Not least of which is that my mom owned and operated Montessori schools for years in the '70s and '80s and never saw this kind of money. NEVER.
What I've not mentioned yet is the school above has something like 45 days of vacation, so working parents have to find a nanny or camp to cover those days. I'm going to attempt more math. The going rate for a nanny is $15/hr, assuming an 8-hour day, times 45 days: $5,400. On top of $29K plus.
In other words, were I willing to work purely to put the kid in school, I'd have to earn something like $50,000 just to break even. That's not one dollar of take-home salary. Not one pair on new shoes for mama. Now, I may be some country hick from Podunk, Oregon, but where's the logic in that? Why would I kill myself at a job I probably wouldn't like to come home with nothing at the end of the day -- other than my beautiful child being raised by someone else?
Surely you noticed you have to pay your own kid's insurance costs (wha?), but did you notice the $300 in materials, ie. Crayons, construction paper, and Elmer's glue?
What in the name of tarnation does $23,000 in tuition cover if not a little glitter? I ask you.
Einstein went to Princeton, but did he go to Montessori? I doubt it. However, maybe I don't have to be concerned about selling my organs to put Cam in school as it appears he was channeling genius from a few weeks old:
Then again, Cam may go a different route all together:
Monday, February 1, 2010
The Shining
Our building, The Beacon, is an art-deco hospital built in the 1930s. At one time it was the largest hospital in the U.S. and is in the same league as the Empire State building architecturally speaking. The hospital closed in 2004, but seven of the ten buildings look like they were abandoned not long after they were built -- as at present, they are barely standing, derelict in nature and burned out in general.
Two buildings have been beautifully restored and turned into apartments, and one building is wired and eagerly awaiting buyers interested in entire-floor apartments that they can build to suit for a few million dollars and $2K/mo or more in maintenance fees. Owners have been promised work on the other buildings will begin promptly -- as soon as the economy is a good little economy and remembers to take its uppers. Plans are set for restaurants, members' only bar, shopping, play areas...all they have to do is displace hundreds of people living in the projects next door; tear down the buildings that have housed some of Jersey City's worst drug offenders, and that have seen more shootings than you can shake a stolen gun at; pave and rebuild.
May I suggest a cleverly placed Starbucks or Crate&Barrel? They could call the newly reclaimed real estate Gentrifica. Yuppie Plaza. Perhaps create the mental image of our own nation within Jersey City: Nolongerafraidtoleavethebeaconcompoundonfoot-ia?
As it is, a lot of work and a lot of money is needed before this area's rep recovers from its terminally ill prognosis.
All the historical stuff aside, the first two times we viewed this place, all I could think of was The Shining. Apart from the guys at the front door and desk, we didn't see a single, solitary soul. Totally quiet, other than my flip-flops flip-flopping. I found out later they shot a Verizon TV commercial here spoofing the movie but raving about their coverage, which is pretty funny since I have Verizon and I get next to zero reception in the building.
Cam has learned to pedal his bike and I have found great joy in freaking out people in the halls ever since.
Two buildings have been beautifully restored and turned into apartments, and one building is wired and eagerly awaiting buyers interested in entire-floor apartments that they can build to suit for a few million dollars and $2K/mo or more in maintenance fees. Owners have been promised work on the other buildings will begin promptly -- as soon as the economy is a good little economy and remembers to take its uppers. Plans are set for restaurants, members' only bar, shopping, play areas...all they have to do is displace hundreds of people living in the projects next door; tear down the buildings that have housed some of Jersey City's worst drug offenders, and that have seen more shootings than you can shake a stolen gun at; pave and rebuild.
May I suggest a cleverly placed Starbucks or Crate&Barrel? They could call the newly reclaimed real estate Gentrifica. Yuppie Plaza. Perhaps create the mental image of our own nation within Jersey City: Nolongerafraidtoleavethebeaconcompoundonfoot-ia?
As it is, a lot of work and a lot of money is needed before this area's rep recovers from its terminally ill prognosis.
All the historical stuff aside, the first two times we viewed this place, all I could think of was The Shining. Apart from the guys at the front door and desk, we didn't see a single, solitary soul. Totally quiet, other than my flip-flops flip-flopping. I found out later they shot a Verizon TV commercial here spoofing the movie but raving about their coverage, which is pretty funny since I have Verizon and I get next to zero reception in the building.
Cam has learned to pedal his bike and I have found great joy in freaking out people in the halls ever since.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Part Trois: Business Law 101
The Law of Attraction goes something like this: if you really want something and believe it can happen, it will. Oprah is a big fan, talks about it all the time. I guess that's how the boxing tournament came about -- I'd thought about it for a long time and there it was.
Funny thing, though, The Law doesn't really apply to other people. The attraction you feel toward someone is great and all, but the more you want the person and the harder you push for that person to be attracted to you, the faster the other person back-peddles. Fatal Attraction anyone?
Anyway, in terms of my life, here is what I'm wondering about The Law of Attraction and Fatal Attraction. What is it that I put out in the universe that attracts strange men who want to show me their business? Because I can assure you, it is not something I want to happen, I'm surely not willing it to happen, though I believe it can and does happen to me often. Let me be very clear: I do not like their business. I do not like their policies or agendas. I do not like what they are selling or for how much. I do not like their logo or marketing plan. I do not like them, Sam I am.
A few examples include a really creepy guy in Value Village when I was in high school and a really normal looking grandpa-type in the castle in Nurnberg. In fact, the end of the trilogy is about one of these flasher experiences, an unfriendly jogger in Mexico.
Shortly after the boxing tournament, days after actually, I flew to Mexico to study for the summer. Among other things, I brought with me the removable cast I'd been wearing since breaking my thumb in the ring. Didn't tell you that part of the story, now did I?
I'd been in Mexico long enough to know where I lived and how to get there by bus and on foot, and to stop wearing the cast. All of which was fortunate because one afternoon the bus skipped my stop and dumped me off a few miles away from my house. As I stepped off the bus I figured it was still light enough outside to walk, and saw my soon-to-be flasher and thought, "Huh, a nice jogger guy. You don't see that very often around here." Truly, I said this to myself.
I started my march home and within a few blocks the jogger ran by me. I thought, "Huh, there goes Jogger Guy, what are the odds?" Truly, I said this to myself. At the end of the block I heard a noise and I looked to see Jogger Guy had set up shop and was carrying on with his business. I half laughed and kept going. He ran by me again. End of the block, there he was, typing on his keyboard? I ignored him. He ran by me again, end of the block, printing his Excel spreadsheet? This time, I pointed and laughed.
Something I do -- and always have done -- when walking by myself is assume I'm going to be attacked and create a POA. I clock the people around me, think about where to run, etc. It sounds paranoid, but I think a lot of women do it, or at least they should. It puts you in the right mindset for the worst-case scenario and I have always hoped it would keep me from panicking and winding up hurt. Needless to say, my oh-crap-o-meter was off the charts this day in Mexico, but when he ran by me again he took off in a different direction and I thought he'd gone home for the day.
I was nearly home when I heard running footsteps behind me. I instantly thought I should step to one side and throw my arm out and clothesline the person, but I didn't think in a million years it could be Jogger Guy as he'd run away two miles back. How would he know where I was and where I lived? All my attack prep went out the window to be replaced by worrying I'd attack the wrong person. But sure enough, the footsteps got closer and I was bear hugged from behind by Jogger Guy.
But guess what? Attack prep came back. I spun around and swung at the same time. Jogger Guy narrowly missed my haymaker, but in doing so he had to throw himself backward and wound up falling to the ground.
I was pissed. Seriously pissed. In my rage I forgot all of my Spanish and found myself yelling cuss words at him in English as I kicked at him. He crab walked back as fast as he could and got up and ran off, with me chasing after him yelling something along the lines of, "Come back here and fight me like a man, you mother effer!"
Come back and fight me like a man? Really? Really. What was I thinking? I'll tell you what I was thinking. While boxing a girl while hundreds of people watched was a bad idea, killing Jogger Guy was a really, really good idea. While I was kind of scared by the whole thing, I really did want him to come back and square up. Mother effer. But let's be honest. What was he thinking? While I may be small from a few blocks away, I get bigger as you get closer. I'm not going to big myself up and say Jogger Guy was a giant. He was a person of average build and several inches shorter than I am. So what was he thinking?
In that moment I was so thankful to my brother. All those years of faux fighting were worth it. I knew my brother would be thrilled his training had saved me from who knows what, even though he wasn't terribly happy it took him 45 minutes to tie me to the china cabinet with my mom's shoe laces the last time we'd wrestled a few months before. I was thankful to the genetics that made me six feet tall, and a little fraternity philanthropy called The Smoker. I was thankful this guy wasn't bigger.
What I didn't know at the time was that this guy had been stalking some of the other girls on my exchange program. That's when I was thankful this guy chose me to attack not one of the other girls because for me it's just another funny anecdote but for someone smaller, weaker, less prepared...from that day on, none of the girls ever saw this guy again, though we suspect he was somehow linked to the host-families we stayed with because he knew where we all lived.
I'm not sure what the moral of these little stories is. You should let your kids fight? Raise a tomboy? Avoid men in running shorts? And Value Villages? And castles? I suppose in a weird way, I did will this to happen in that I wanted to let my training run its course, no pun intended, to its obvious end. And with that, I'm done with the business of business.
Funny thing, though, The Law doesn't really apply to other people. The attraction you feel toward someone is great and all, but the more you want the person and the harder you push for that person to be attracted to you, the faster the other person back-peddles. Fatal Attraction anyone?
Anyway, in terms of my life, here is what I'm wondering about The Law of Attraction and Fatal Attraction. What is it that I put out in the universe that attracts strange men who want to show me their business? Because I can assure you, it is not something I want to happen, I'm surely not willing it to happen, though I believe it can and does happen to me often. Let me be very clear: I do not like their business. I do not like their policies or agendas. I do not like what they are selling or for how much. I do not like their logo or marketing plan. I do not like them, Sam I am.
A few examples include a really creepy guy in Value Village when I was in high school and a really normal looking grandpa-type in the castle in Nurnberg. In fact, the end of the trilogy is about one of these flasher experiences, an unfriendly jogger in Mexico.
Shortly after the boxing tournament, days after actually, I flew to Mexico to study for the summer. Among other things, I brought with me the removable cast I'd been wearing since breaking my thumb in the ring. Didn't tell you that part of the story, now did I?
I'd been in Mexico long enough to know where I lived and how to get there by bus and on foot, and to stop wearing the cast. All of which was fortunate because one afternoon the bus skipped my stop and dumped me off a few miles away from my house. As I stepped off the bus I figured it was still light enough outside to walk, and saw my soon-to-be flasher and thought, "Huh, a nice jogger guy. You don't see that very often around here." Truly, I said this to myself.
I started my march home and within a few blocks the jogger ran by me. I thought, "Huh, there goes Jogger Guy, what are the odds?" Truly, I said this to myself. At the end of the block I heard a noise and I looked to see Jogger Guy had set up shop and was carrying on with his business. I half laughed and kept going. He ran by me again. End of the block, there he was, typing on his keyboard? I ignored him. He ran by me again, end of the block, printing his Excel spreadsheet? This time, I pointed and laughed.
Something I do -- and always have done -- when walking by myself is assume I'm going to be attacked and create a POA. I clock the people around me, think about where to run, etc. It sounds paranoid, but I think a lot of women do it, or at least they should. It puts you in the right mindset for the worst-case scenario and I have always hoped it would keep me from panicking and winding up hurt. Needless to say, my oh-crap-o-meter was off the charts this day in Mexico, but when he ran by me again he took off in a different direction and I thought he'd gone home for the day.
I was nearly home when I heard running footsteps behind me. I instantly thought I should step to one side and throw my arm out and clothesline the person, but I didn't think in a million years it could be Jogger Guy as he'd run away two miles back. How would he know where I was and where I lived? All my attack prep went out the window to be replaced by worrying I'd attack the wrong person. But sure enough, the footsteps got closer and I was bear hugged from behind by Jogger Guy.
But guess what? Attack prep came back. I spun around and swung at the same time. Jogger Guy narrowly missed my haymaker, but in doing so he had to throw himself backward and wound up falling to the ground.
I was pissed. Seriously pissed. In my rage I forgot all of my Spanish and found myself yelling cuss words at him in English as I kicked at him. He crab walked back as fast as he could and got up and ran off, with me chasing after him yelling something along the lines of, "Come back here and fight me like a man, you mother effer!"
Come back and fight me like a man? Really? Really. What was I thinking? I'll tell you what I was thinking. While boxing a girl while hundreds of people watched was a bad idea, killing Jogger Guy was a really, really good idea. While I was kind of scared by the whole thing, I really did want him to come back and square up. Mother effer. But let's be honest. What was he thinking? While I may be small from a few blocks away, I get bigger as you get closer. I'm not going to big myself up and say Jogger Guy was a giant. He was a person of average build and several inches shorter than I am. So what was he thinking?
In that moment I was so thankful to my brother. All those years of faux fighting were worth it. I knew my brother would be thrilled his training had saved me from who knows what, even though he wasn't terribly happy it took him 45 minutes to tie me to the china cabinet with my mom's shoe laces the last time we'd wrestled a few months before. I was thankful to the genetics that made me six feet tall, and a little fraternity philanthropy called The Smoker. I was thankful this guy wasn't bigger.
What I didn't know at the time was that this guy had been stalking some of the other girls on my exchange program. That's when I was thankful this guy chose me to attack not one of the other girls because for me it's just another funny anecdote but for someone smaller, weaker, less prepared...from that day on, none of the girls ever saw this guy again, though we suspect he was somehow linked to the host-families we stayed with because he knew where we all lived.
I'm not sure what the moral of these little stories is. You should let your kids fight? Raise a tomboy? Avoid men in running shorts? And Value Villages? And castles? I suppose in a weird way, I did will this to happen in that I wanted to let my training run its course, no pun intended, to its obvious end. And with that, I'm done with the business of business.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
A Trilogy
That really has no point, but I think I can make a very vague connection somewhere...
You may know I was raised in the country, and that my parents were on some hippie seventies kick that involved healthy living. Which I find funny as they both were from meat-and-potatoes families, and entirely bypassed the '60s by going to a conservative university and in no way participating in anything to do with their generation, good or bad. But there we were, living in the barn my dad built, eating twigs and being physically active. Out in the country. It was nigh on child abuse.
If you guessed that TV, or the lack there of, was part of their deprivation, you would be wrong. My dad tried to bring us into the modern age, he really did. He bought a telephone pole and placed the antennae upon it, and luck have it, we got four TV channels: ABC, CBS and OPB twice. We were children of the '80s with no Cosby. I think they probably would have ordered us cable, but it didn't arrive on the street for another decade.
You may also know my mom invented a lot of things to keep us entertained. Think of it kind of like prison, where the warden gives the prisoners just enough to do to keep them from rioting. Which is how we got hog-tie-your-sibling-with-your-robe-belt game.
The problem was, my brother is almost six years older than I am. The deck was stacked against me in this, and most every game we played. I have to say, in all fairness, he was pretty good about not inflicting physical pain. It was always more the threat of it that sent me mental. So at the end of HTYSWYRB game, it wasn't that I was injured, I was just seriously pissed that I had to roll down the hallway to my parents to get untied.
Part I
You may know I was raised in the country, and that my parents were on some hippie seventies kick that involved healthy living. Which I find funny as they both were from meat-and-potatoes families, and entirely bypassed the '60s by going to a conservative university and in no way participating in anything to do with their generation, good or bad. But there we were, living in the barn my dad built, eating twigs and being physically active. Out in the country. It was nigh on child abuse.
If you guessed that TV, or the lack there of, was part of their deprivation, you would be wrong. My dad tried to bring us into the modern age, he really did. He bought a telephone pole and placed the antennae upon it, and luck have it, we got four TV channels: ABC, CBS and OPB twice. We were children of the '80s with no Cosby. I think they probably would have ordered us cable, but it didn't arrive on the street for another decade.
You may also know my mom invented a lot of things to keep us entertained. Think of it kind of like prison, where the warden gives the prisoners just enough to do to keep them from rioting. Which is how we got hog-tie-your-sibling-with-your-robe-belt game.
The problem was, my brother is almost six years older than I am. The deck was stacked against me in this, and most every game we played. I have to say, in all fairness, he was pretty good about not inflicting physical pain. It was always more the threat of it that sent me mental. So at the end of HTYSWYRB game, it wasn't that I was injured, I was just seriously pissed that I had to roll down the hallway to my parents to get untied.
Now, HTYSWYRB game, you may be surprised to find out, doesn't go down well as a topic of conversation at dinner parties. Nor does the less-funnily-named all-family-all-room-wrestling-match game. That one didn't even end when my brother spun my mom around on his shoulders then misjudged his strength and launched her not onto the bed but onto the windowsill giving her a cut on her head that probably would have required stitches had the doctor not been a 30-minute drive away. People just don't understand the severity of our isolation. You may also be surprised how difficult the fluffier all-family-hide-and-go-seek-in-an-800sq-foot-house-in-the-daylight game is, but I don't talk about that one much as it doesn't get much of a laugh in polite, or impolite, society.
What will no longer surprise you is that in 3rd grade P.E. the boys took wrestling, the girls took volleyball, and my mom had to sign a permission slip for me to do the wrestling. I might have been eight, but I wasn't stupid.
Trilogy, Part II
I am far from tough. Truth be told, like my father before me, I don't do well with conflict. We may be giants, but we're gentle ones. My knees used to quite literally shake when my friends were getting in trouble and it had nothing to do with me.
These days, I'm older and a bit harder. Not much, but a bit.
However, all that wrestling and near torture suffered at the hands of my brother left me wondering: what would happen if I got in a fight?
I like to lead a life such that no one would take issue with me. I choose to diffuse situations, not add fuel to them. It's not just that I find fighting undignified for a lady, it's more that I think only stupid people do it. And you can get in legal trouble. But I've always had this little wish to call someone out. Throw down. Have someone push me to the point that I say, "Right. You are having it." Knuckle sandwich. Junkyard scuffle. I've always imagined it wouldn't be hair pulling and slapping, but some serious knee-to-face kinda Brad Pitt in Snatch kinda sh*t up in here. Me, only hard. Me, only not afraid of the ramifications like going to jail.
Then, one night in college, it happened. I found a legal way to have a fight. Some fraternity's philanthropy for premature babies was a boxing tournament and this was to be the first year they allowed women. It was the following day, and I signed up. I didn't tell anyone.
I didn't know what to expect really. Three, one-minute rounds? Easy-peasy. A few dozen people? Over-sized, cartoon gloves? A little fun for a little money for kids?
Not so much, as it turns out. Hundreds of people were there to watch something like 10 fights, three of which were girls. They'd set up a professional ring with a real ref. The girl I was matched against wouldn't talk to me and she had "bitch" written on her mouth gaurd. None of the guys in my tent would give me any advice because they were friends with her.
The bell rang for the first guy fight, and a few punches in let me tell you it wasn't the first time I thought this is a bad idea.
Keep in mind I'd never thrown a real punch in my life.
By the time I got the gloves and head and crotch gear on it stank and was wet from sweat. Bad idea.
One of my two friends in attendance offered to be in my corner, and did this boxer/football pads/guy thing where he hit my shoulders kinda hard then slapped me in the head gear with his right hand, then his left, all of which hurt. Bad idea.
I got in the ring and looked at the crowd. For reals, yo. BAD IDEA.
You know how Zoolander is brainwashed to kill the Prime Minister when his trigger song "Relax" is played? Well, the bell rang and the switch flipped. From mild-mannered girl next door to Dolph Lundgren in Rocky IV.
I must break you.
Turns out, three minutes boxing is a really long time even when you're in good shape. Even with extra corner time because I kept knocking her headgear sideways and she needed smelling salts.
Turns out, the competition was rigged as she was friends with the judges. I was a little miffed as I'd clearly won, but I was a lot glad it was over. Then, quite proud of myself as the ref and boxing club owner asked how long I'd been boxing and were incredulous that they'd just seen the first (and last) three minutes of my career. Must have been a dozen guys gave me ye ol' pat on the back. Must have been hundreds of single guys who decisively put me on their "not in this lifetime" lists.
I got the video. Next time you're in Salem and have a VCR handy, you can borrow it off me Ma. Don't worry, she doesn't have any dags and she doesn't live in a caravan in a pikey campsite. Brad Pitt. Snatch. No? Rent it, it'll make sense.
These days, I'm older and a bit harder. Not much, but a bit.
However, all that wrestling and near torture suffered at the hands of my brother left me wondering: what would happen if I got in a fight?
I like to lead a life such that no one would take issue with me. I choose to diffuse situations, not add fuel to them. It's not just that I find fighting undignified for a lady, it's more that I think only stupid people do it. And you can get in legal trouble. But I've always had this little wish to call someone out. Throw down. Have someone push me to the point that I say, "Right. You are having it." Knuckle sandwich. Junkyard scuffle. I've always imagined it wouldn't be hair pulling and slapping, but some serious knee-to-face kinda Brad Pitt in Snatch kinda sh*t up in here. Me, only hard. Me, only not afraid of the ramifications like going to jail.
Then, one night in college, it happened. I found a legal way to have a fight. Some fraternity's philanthropy for premature babies was a boxing tournament and this was to be the first year they allowed women. It was the following day, and I signed up. I didn't tell anyone.
I didn't know what to expect really. Three, one-minute rounds? Easy-peasy. A few dozen people? Over-sized, cartoon gloves? A little fun for a little money for kids?
Not so much, as it turns out. Hundreds of people were there to watch something like 10 fights, three of which were girls. They'd set up a professional ring with a real ref. The girl I was matched against wouldn't talk to me and she had "bitch" written on her mouth gaurd. None of the guys in my tent would give me any advice because they were friends with her.
The bell rang for the first guy fight, and a few punches in let me tell you it wasn't the first time I thought this is a bad idea.
Keep in mind I'd never thrown a real punch in my life.
By the time I got the gloves and head and crotch gear on it stank and was wet from sweat. Bad idea.
One of my two friends in attendance offered to be in my corner, and did this boxer/football pads/guy thing where he hit my shoulders kinda hard then slapped me in the head gear with his right hand, then his left, all of which hurt. Bad idea.
I got in the ring and looked at the crowd. For reals, yo. BAD IDEA.
You know how Zoolander is brainwashed to kill the Prime Minister when his trigger song "Relax" is played? Well, the bell rang and the switch flipped. From mild-mannered girl next door to Dolph Lundgren in Rocky IV.
I must break you.
Turns out, three minutes boxing is a really long time even when you're in good shape. Even with extra corner time because I kept knocking her headgear sideways and she needed smelling salts.
Turns out, the competition was rigged as she was friends with the judges. I was a little miffed as I'd clearly won, but I was a lot glad it was over. Then, quite proud of myself as the ref and boxing club owner asked how long I'd been boxing and were incredulous that they'd just seen the first (and last) three minutes of my career. Must have been a dozen guys gave me ye ol' pat on the back. Must have been hundreds of single guys who decisively put me on their "not in this lifetime" lists.
I got the video. Next time you're in Salem and have a VCR handy, you can borrow it off me Ma. Don't worry, she doesn't have any dags and she doesn't live in a caravan in a pikey campsite. Brad Pitt. Snatch. No? Rent it, it'll make sense.
Why I like my husband
He is the eternal helper of little old ladies crossing the street, defender of those unable to defend themselves, righter of wrongs, doer of good.
Picture this. Sunny day, posh neighborhood (obviously, not ours), coffee shop. Skirmish between Old Man, quick math during subsequent conversation puts him at 90 or thereabouts, and Guy about appropriateness of loud, long phone conversations in a public place. Not thrilled with the direction of the back and forth, but not our concern. Until.
Old man says Guy should get an office to conduct business. Guy calls Old Man "crazy." I jump in, telling Guy he's out of line. Husband "sees the red mist" as my friend describes her rage, and tells Guy to have some respect. Guy mistakenly says, "what are you going to do about it?" Husband suggests he and Guy step outside. Guy goes very quiet and won't make eye contact.
We have nice conversation with Old Man. Jewish, German, immigrated to the U.S. in 1939 and fought in the Pacific during WWII. We wait for Old Man to leave, on our way out Husband tells Guy to have a nice day, and that he's an A-hole.
I really like my husband.
Picture this. Sunny day, posh neighborhood (obviously, not ours), coffee shop. Skirmish between Old Man, quick math during subsequent conversation puts him at 90 or thereabouts, and Guy about appropriateness of loud, long phone conversations in a public place. Not thrilled with the direction of the back and forth, but not our concern. Until.
Old man says Guy should get an office to conduct business. Guy calls Old Man "crazy." I jump in, telling Guy he's out of line. Husband "sees the red mist" as my friend describes her rage, and tells Guy to have some respect. Guy mistakenly says, "what are you going to do about it?" Husband suggests he and Guy step outside. Guy goes very quiet and won't make eye contact.
We have nice conversation with Old Man. Jewish, German, immigrated to the U.S. in 1939 and fought in the Pacific during WWII. We wait for Old Man to leave, on our way out Husband tells Guy to have a nice day, and that he's an A-hole.
I really like my husband.
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