Monday, September 29, 2008

Lessons Learned

I just had to give Hannah a harsh lesson in reality.

I had to tell her: "If you love him, don't disembowel him."

I hope to pass this lesson onto my human daughter someday.

Thankfully, I was able to salvage Boris, her teddy bear, aka: love of her life and creature being disemboweled.

He's now emptied of most of his stuffing, but still full of Boris-loving-excitement.

We can only hope that this destruction does not become a habit.

For the sake of teddy bears everywhere...

Friday, September 26, 2008

Please Form a Queue and Let me Fix You...

(Hehe... my title rhymes...)

I have a problem...

OK... lots of problems, but there's a specific one that's bugging me.

I have this impulse to give my opinion on things.

More than that, I have a huge desire to help people.

When someone is hurt, I yearn to fix it. I have imaginary conversations in my head where they ask for my advice and I (finally) get to dispense all of this pent of wisdomness onto them.

And then that person thanks me profusely and wishes that they had just sucked it up sooner and asked for my opinion in the first place.

(Or I imagine opening a can of whoop ass on someone and shaking them because they are being stupid... but we all have that fantasy... right?)

But this rarely/never happens (either scenario).

It doesn't help that I have these urges to help people who I have very little business in helping.

They don't want my help.

And they might press charges/disown me if I kicked their ass...

I've been the person who stuck her nose in other people's business... and I've been emotionally pounded for it.

So I'm trying to stay out of other people's lives, unless invited.

Except when it comes to Kevin... it's my job to stick my nose in his life... sorry dude.

And Bonnie and Hannah. I had to give some serious trauma counseling to Bonnie after the deer incident.

And the fam... most of the time.

But with other people, I have to be very careful. I don't want to overstep my boundaries.

So now I just sit here... worrying...

And I wish I didn't. But I've been worried my entire life...

When I was little, I worried about my baby brother. (I still worry about him, but I keep it to myself... for the most part. At some point you just have to let the little bugger climb glaciers and jump out of airplanes...)

As I grew up, I worried about my friends.

When my parents split, I wasn't worried about me... I was worried about them.

When I was younger, my dad would tell me not to worry so much, or else I would get an ulcer.

Then I worried that I had an ulcer...

And those are just the other people that I worry for...

The smell of the inside of airplanes still gives me panic attacks.

Waiting in line gives me panic attacks.

Shopping (believe it or not) gives me panic attacks.

Low blood sugar gives me panic attacks.

And feeling out of control, or that I did something stupid, makes me panic, too.

Granted, it's a whole lot better than it used to be. I don't let it take over my life... and that is a very good thing.

But it's this sick feeling in my tummy that is the problem... the sick feeling when someone else is not doing well.

That's why I don't know if I can be a social worker. I know that it would be interesting, but I have a very hard time drawing the line between other people's feelings/problems and my own.

I don't know how it would all transfer into my own happiness.

Maybe I should just go back to being an ice cream scooper.

Although there is some worry in the ice creaming business... I would imagine that it's fairly less than in social work.

So, do I care too much?


Thinking about it, it may not be a "problem" (at least not in the same way that global warming or poverty are "problems"), but it sure does blow.

Not that I'm looking for sympathy...


I'm just sharing.

So don't worry about me.

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Flip-Flops and a Fun Run... Take That Adventurous AJ!

While my baby brother is off climbing glaciers and mountains and swimming naked in New Zealand’s finest waterfalls, I am here.

Watching TV.


With my clothes on.

I walked a 5K on Sunday, though.

And in under an hour (59 minutes and 47 seconds, to be exact).

Mike walked the whole thing in flip-flops, which pretty much sums up why boys are silly.

The 5K was for the Boy’s and Girl’s Club of America, so there were a whole lot of kids there.

They all beat me.

We walked with some co-workers, and one of them brought her two little boys. Her four year old kicked our collective ass. Granted, he got to ride in a stroller for half of the race, while flip-floppy and I had to walk the whole thing, but the kid flat out ran the last half mile.

The plan was to stay behind him until the last little bit and then sprint in front, pushing him to the ground if need be, to finish before him…

But he was way faster than us, so that whole plan sort of failed.

Her one year old even beat us. But he was in the stroller the whole time, and only beat us because his pusher was hauling… but still.

There are always a lot of sponsors at these things, and they usually hand out free stuff. This is why I participate. Sure, the organization is a good one and all. And sure, the walking can only help my tiny-lung syndrome (Hey! We should have a 5K to benefit my condition! Sort of like a Rabies Fun Run…), but it’s really all about the free crap.

I got a few of those reusable grocery bags, which I love. I always forget them in the car when I go to the grocery store… but it’s the thought that

I also got two water bottles, one from Sports Authority, and from Westwood College.

Me: Mike, do you want a water bottle from Westwood College?
Mike: Nah, we have enough water bottles at home.
Me: Yes, but these have a number 1 on the bottom… ours all have 7s on the bottom and are slowly killing us from the inside.
Westwood College Rep: Well, at least you’re hydrated.
Me: Yes, we may be infertile and we may die, but at least we’ll die well hydrated.

I also took my fair share of free samples of Lara Bars and smoothie drinks.

They were also handing out bike helmets for free to kids. I tried to get Mike one, but he has a man head (read: large), and they didn’t fit.

One of the other free things was a magic eight ball. In an effort to not bring too much useless crap home with me, I left that there, but the speedy little four year old got one. He kept asking it if he would win the race, and asking his mom what it said.

When it kept saying to ask again later, he lost interest.

Oh, for a visual of said kid, see here.

And by the way, we walked the whole thing around a lake, and did I have any desire to take my clothes off and jump in? No.

Would my baby brother?

Not only would he have the desire… he would flat out do it.

Even after the four year old told everyone that he was pretty sure that there were alligators in there.

Again… boys = silly/kinda disturbing individuals.

Monday, September 22, 2008

I did NOT write this...

My dad sent me this, and I loved it, and think that everyone should read it (again, I take NO credit for this awesome piece of writing... although I wish I had written it first):

This is Your Nation on White Privilege By Tim Wise

For those who still can't grasp the concept of white privilege, or who are constantly looking for some easy-to-understand examples of it, perhaps this list will help.

White privilege is when you can get pregnant at seventeen like Bristol Palin and everyone is quick to insist that your life and that of your family is a personal matter, and that no one has a right to judge you or your parents, because 'every family has challenges,' even as black and Latino families with similar 'challenges' are regularly typified as irresponsible, pathological and arbiters of social decay.

White privilege is when you can call yourself a 'fuckin' redneck,' like Bristol Palin's boyfriend does, and talk about how if anyone messes with you, you'll 'kick their fuckin' ass,' and talk about how you like to 'shoot shit' for fun, and still be viewed as a responsible, all-American boy (and a great son-in-law to be) rather than a thug.

White privilege is when you can attend four different colleges in six years like Sarah Palin did (one of which you basically failed out of, then returned to after making up some coursework at a community college), and no one questions your intelligence or commitment to achievement, whereas a person of color who did this would be viewed as unfit for college, and probably someone who only got in in the first place because of affirmative action.

White privilege is when you can claim that being mayor of a town smaller than most medium-sized colleges, and then Governor of a state with about the same number of people as the lower fifth of the island of Manhattan, makes you ready to potentially be president, and people don't all piss on themselves with laughter, while being a black U.S. Senator, two-term state Senator, and constitutional law scholar, means you're 'untested. '

White privilege is being able to say that you support the words 'under God' in the pledge of allegiance because 'if it was good enough for the founding fathers, it's good enough for me,' and not be immediately disqualified from holding office--since, after all, the pledge was written in the late 1800s and the 'under God' part wasn't added until the 1950s--while believing that reading accused criminals and terrorists their rights (because, ya know, the Constitution, which you used to teach at a prestigious law school requires it), is a dangerous and silly idea only supported by mushy liberals.

White privilege is being able to be a gun enthusiast and not make people immediately scared of you.

White privilege is being able to have a husband who was a member of an extremist political party that wants your state to secede from the Union, and whose motto was 'Alaska first,' and no one questions your patriotism or that of your family, while if you're black and your spouse merely fails to come to a 9/11 memorial so she can be home with her kids on the first day of school, people immediately think she's being disrespectful.

White privilege is being able to make fun of community organizers and the work they do--like, among other things, fight for the right of women to vote, or for civil rights, or the 8-hour workday, or an end to child labor--and people think you're being pithy and tough, but if you merely question the experience of a small town mayor and 18-month governor with no foreign policy expertise beyond a class she took in college--you're somehow being mean, or even sexist.

White privilege is being able to convince white women who don't even agree with you on any substantive issue to vote for you and your running mate anyway, because all of a sudden your presence on the ticket has inspired confidence in these same white women, and made them give your party a 'second look. '

White privilege is being able to fire people who didn't support your political campaigns and not be accused of abusing your power or being a typical politician who engages in favoritism, while being black and merely knowing some folks from the old-line political machines in Chicago means you must be corrupt.

White privilege is being able to attend churches over the years whose pastors say that people who voted for John Kerry or merely criticize George W. Bush are going to hell, and that the U.S. is an explicitly Christian nation and the job of Christians is to bring Christian theological principles into government, and who bring in speakers who say the conflict in the Middle East is God's punishment on Jews for rejecting Jesus, and everyone can still think you're just a good church-going Christian, but if you're black and friends with a black pastor who has noted (as have Colin Powell and the U.S. Department of Defense) that terrorist attacks are often the result of U.S. foreign policy and who talks about the history of racism and its effect on black people, you're an extremist who probably hates America.

White privilege is not knowing what the Bush Doctrine is when asked by a reporter, and then people get angry at the reporter for asking you such a 'trick question,' while being black and merely refusing to give one-word answers to the queries of Bill O'Reilly means you're dodging the question, or trying to seem overly intellectual and nuanced.

White privilege is being able to claim your experience as a POW has anything at all to do with your fitness for president, while being black and experiencing racism is, as Sarah Palin has referred to it a 'light' burden.

And finally, white privilege is the only thing that could possibly allow someone to become president when he has voted with George W. Bush 90 percent of the time, even as unemployment is skyrocketing, people are losing their homes, inflation is rising, and the U.S. is increasingly isolated from world opinion, just because white voters aren't sure about that whole 'change' thing. Ya know, it's just too vague and ill-defined, unlike, say, four more years of the same, which is very concrete and certain.

White privilege is, in short, the problem.


That pretty much sums it all up.

It's not irrational liberal crap (as some people are bound to lable it as)... it's common sense.

And it's a perfect example of applying all of the things that I have studied during the last 5 years and have my degree in (in case anyone is still confused about what Women and Gender Studies is).

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Nothing Special

I'm eating a donut. I know that I shouldn't eat it... but I am.

It calls to me.

Ok, that was depressing... so I just threw the half-eaten donut away.

I need a new job.

A woman just came over and asked me to scan something for her, because I have the only working scanner in the company.

I said no problem.

Looked in the file... and she had already scanned it!

She did it and forgot.

I scan a million things a day... and I've never tried to re-scan something because I forgot that I did it.

You know, I should have known that today wouldn't be very good...
A fly flew into my mouth this morning while I was asleep.
Yep, I woke up with an effin fly in my mouth.
I feel like this is now my destiny.
I have nothing to write... I just felt like I should write something.

Sunday, September 7, 2008

If only I could pee standing up...

You know what's worse than having to pee really bad but not being able to go to the restroom...?

Being in line behind 40 plus women.

Relief is in sight, yet so impossibly far away.

Plus, it's intermission, so you only have 15 minutes or less to reach nirvana.

This is the situation that my mother and I found ourselves in on our recent trip to NYC. We were at a beautiful, old, historic, famous theater, The Gershwin, seeing the most amazing show, Wicked.

I had had two vodka cranberries within the previous 2 hours (one before the show, and a big gulp size one during the show... vodka is very low in calories... and cranberry juice prevents urinary tract infections... except when you have to hold it all in you bladder for too long...).

We ran out of the theater as soon as the curtains closed, and ran right into a wall of faster women (seriously, how did they get there so fast?). So we thought that we would go downstairs to find another, less crowded bathroom.

Yeah... there isn't another bathroom downstairs. So we climbed back upstairs, and got in the huge line.

Meanwhile, men were just waltzing right into their bathroom and right out. A girl in front of us asked the usher if there was another bathroom, and then joked that maybe we should just go into the men's room.

The usher said that women do that all of the time.

My mother then took that as an invitation to get a pack of women to commandeer the men's room.

We stood outside in line, and had a nice young man check to make sure that the coast was clear. Meanwhile, the little ding-dong noise went off to tell us we had five minutes to return to our seats for the second half of the show.

Finally, the coast was clear... sort of. One poor guy got stuck in the middle of our line, and, like us, couldn't hold it. Maybe he was also a fan of the vodka-crans. He apologized, asked us to avert our eyes, and went for the furthest urinal.

The dude had to overcome some major stage-fright... peeing in front of 8 female strangers.

Bravo sir. Bravo.

Finally, it was my turn (only 3 stalls in the men's room...), and it was wonderful...

A little dirty... but wonderful.

The whole trip my grandmother was saying things like: When I was a little girl, I used to ride my bike here all the time. Or: When we were young, your grandfather and I would come here...

Now I can tell my grandkids: When I was young, I peed in the men's room of the Gershwin.

I highly recommend the musical, Wicked. I finished the book about 15 minutes before leaving for the show. Although the musical is based off of a novel, the two are really too different to be compared. The book was good, especially the second time... but singing makes everything better.


My cousin, David: So, life after college... it's not such a bed of roses, huh?
Me: No... not really... not yet.
David: Well, do you want the good news or the bad news first.
Me: Bad.
David: There are no roses.
Me: What's the good.
David: There are no roses.

PS: I know that the picture isn't anything funny, but I'm exhausted... and it's really hard to find an appropriate picture on the Internet that goes well with this story... don't try typing "need to pee" into Google images... trust me.