This may be old news to some and actually it's old news to me as well. Between my back yard beautification project, my social life and work, this is the first chance I've had to update my blog.
The old news is, Danica Patrick won an IndyCar race. She's the first woman in history to do so. I'm not a fan of racing but as a fan of women, I love that she won.
As expected, there have been rumblings around the racing world, one of which came from another racer, Robby Gordon. He said that Danica had an unfair advantage because she only weighs 100 pounds whereas most of the other racers, being men and all, weigh closer to 200 pounds. "The lighter the car, the faster it goes...I won't race against her until the IRL does something to take the advantage away." Gordon said.
I understand that there is overt sexism that is ingrained in people, mistaken for our cultural norm. I hate it, and think it's completely stupid, but I'm aware that it's there. I expected there to be some men grumbling about Danica winning. Her victory is a kick in the tighty whiteys to a sport that has been a hard core boys club for a long time. As people will do when change is coming to their town, they tend to lock the doors. Especially the locals in charge who are used to running the show.
What I find most frustrating about Gordon's complaint is that he wants the rules changed now. It never occurred to him to go on a binge of not eating, or start forcing himself to throw up after every meal, or overdose on laxatives to drop weight. He didn't think to risk his health and do whatever he had to do to stay competitive. The thought never crossed his mind. Instead, he went to work to change the rules.
That frustrated me because women do these types of things to themselves all the time. We are constantly told that if we want something badly enough, we will do whatever it takes. Women starve themselves to be faster athletes, to live up to false beauty standards, to be accepted by someone else in one way or another. Feminists have been fighting for years to have the playing field leveled, yet roadblocks are put up time after time. We are told that we are just bitter and hateful toward men, that we want "special" rights, that we women just aren't as good as men, that we are worth 70% of the salaries men make because, (according to John McCain) women need "more education and training". When we stop taking the world out on ourselves and start working to make it a better place for everyone, that's when we hear the backlash.
So Danica, whether you consider yourself a feminist or not, I don't care. You stand your little, fit frame on the podium and bask in the moment that you kicked the crap out of everyone one else on the course that day.
Ladies, I propose we stop beating up on ourselves and put that energy to good use. Let those boys who want to argue over weight restrictions in IndyCar racing, play golf at the country clubs that don't allow us in and use their bigger salaries to buy stuff they don't need to impress people they don't like anyway. Let them have that crap, let's you and I take over the world.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Friday, April 04, 2008
Full of it
I have been getting all over my own ass about being a cantankerous wanker all the time. I compare myself to the me of my early twenties when I remember never suffering road rage, living the life credo, 'live and let live' and feeling kindly toward most of the people on the planet. The people who I didn't think kindly on, I refrained from thinking about much at all.
Nowadays, I feel that I obsess about all the things that I don't like in this world and that those things are everywhere. I feel like I know more than I want to, have memories that I want to give back and do not suffer fools gladly, if at all. My patience wears thin and I give myself a hard time about the influx of negative thoughts in my head. From there, it just spirals.
Apparently, all of this negativity is well contained in my head, because those closest to me just don't see the glut of the growly that I feel I emanate.
This perspective was brought to my attention today when Goat told me that I was full of love. I was taken aback when he first said it, but when I thought about the evening's conversation, it struck me that he was right.
Since arriving at his house just over four hours ago, I have gone into detail about how and why I love the following things. Mind you, this is no mere "oh, I love that" throw away line, but conversations about the whys and hows of my love for these things.
- The pot roast Goat made for dinner
- Drag Kings (especially Harry Dodge)
- The dessert Goat made (brownies)
- The B side of Steely Dan's "Gaucho"
- The A side of David Bowie's "Low"
- Last night's furniture rearranging
- Snorkeling
- The wedding dress I found online that I want to wear should Goat and I get hitched
- Dancing with the dogs in the kitchen to The Upsetters
Now, for self-professed grouch, a girl who feels both way too old for her age and incurably pessimistic, that's a lot of love to spill around a house in one evening. Maybe what I hear in my head isn't as bad or as thick as it seems. Maybe I shed a few layers of gripes on my vacation, left them to be neutralized by the salt water and sun. I do have to say, I've been feeling lighter since I got home. Hell, maybe it's the brownies talking.
Getting that comment from Goat was like a shot in the arm, so to speak. It felt like that first day after winter but right before spring when it's snowy, but you realize that for the the first time in months, the sun actually feels warm.
Love. I'm full of it.
Nowadays, I feel that I obsess about all the things that I don't like in this world and that those things are everywhere. I feel like I know more than I want to, have memories that I want to give back and do not suffer fools gladly, if at all. My patience wears thin and I give myself a hard time about the influx of negative thoughts in my head. From there, it just spirals.
Apparently, all of this negativity is well contained in my head, because those closest to me just don't see the glut of the growly that I feel I emanate.
This perspective was brought to my attention today when Goat told me that I was full of love. I was taken aback when he first said it, but when I thought about the evening's conversation, it struck me that he was right.
Since arriving at his house just over four hours ago, I have gone into detail about how and why I love the following things. Mind you, this is no mere "oh, I love that" throw away line, but conversations about the whys and hows of my love for these things.
- The pot roast Goat made for dinner
- Drag Kings (especially Harry Dodge)
- The dessert Goat made (brownies)
- The B side of Steely Dan's "Gaucho"
- The A side of David Bowie's "Low"
- Last night's furniture rearranging
- Snorkeling
- The wedding dress I found online that I want to wear should Goat and I get hitched
- Dancing with the dogs in the kitchen to The Upsetters
Now, for self-professed grouch, a girl who feels both way too old for her age and incurably pessimistic, that's a lot of love to spill around a house in one evening. Maybe what I hear in my head isn't as bad or as thick as it seems. Maybe I shed a few layers of gripes on my vacation, left them to be neutralized by the salt water and sun. I do have to say, I've been feeling lighter since I got home. Hell, maybe it's the brownies talking.
Getting that comment from Goat was like a shot in the arm, so to speak. It felt like that first day after winter but right before spring when it's snowy, but you realize that for the the first time in months, the sun actually feels warm.
Love. I'm full of it.
Freckles!
There and back again. My freckles have already faded.
My trip to Turks and Caicos ruled. It was a true vacation where I actually relaxed, read a whole book in a week, snorkeled, and exercised sloth. Is it actually possible to exercise sloth? Isn't that a contradiction in terms?
Goat and I spent a solid 10 days together, the longest of our relationship, and our partnership is still in tact. It speaks to the depth at which I am in deep with this man. I'm a girl short on patience and long on personal space issues.
This picture shows me snorkeling in the foreground. I was looking for lunch.
Friday, March 07, 2008
Tanning
My lineage is that of pasty people. Going on vacation to somewhere sunny usually requires me to do some tanning before I go, but I rarely, if ever, actually commit to the venture. In fact the last time I went to a tanning booth was at least 15 years ago.
In one week I will be heading to Turks & Caicos with my family. Just in time too, because I'm ready to loose my mind in the frigid chill of the bullshit that is winter in Michigan. Why do I reside in a state where the weather makes me a vitriolic maniac five months out of the year?
To keep my pasty, winterized epidermis from scorching in a place much closer to the equator, I decided to cram a handful of tanning sessions in at the local fake bake shop before heading south. I fully intended to go for 8 weeks prior to my vacation, but kept putting it off and putting it off until this past Wednesday, when I had 9 days before my departure.
In California, according to TV, the people who work at tanning salons are bubbly, helpful cheerleader types. There, tanning is a sign of health and vitality. In Michigan, it's a sign of being a stripper, having a winter home in Florida or combating Seasonal Affective Disorder. Natalia was not so much a helpful cheerleader as an annoyed minimum income wage earner.
There are now "levels" of beds. Who knew? In a standard get-what-you-pay-for scenario, the options are old skool hex bed which will burn the hell out of you after three minutes and you have to go for weeks and weeks to see any results; a level two bed which is low burning but better tanning in a shorter time and finally the high pressurized no burn, tan in two seconds bed.
Also unlike almost two decades ago, they now have tanning lotion specifically made for using in a tanning bed. You can't use regular sunscreen or lotion, no sir. You have to get the special stuff which is developed for the types of rays used in a tanning bed. They come in a variety of smells almost all of which remind me of the '80's. I picked one that makes me smell like Orange Julius.
The bed they always put me in is called the "Pryzma", all spelled out in tropical letters. It makes me feel kind of cool, like I could be in Hawaii and I might know how to hang ten. I call this bed the UV coffin because I get in and pull the lid over myself, like I'm a reverse vampire protecting myslef from the doom of a cloudy winter. There is a really powerful fan that blasts away all the noise and most of the overbearing part of the heat.
I love that 6 minutes of bright warm, smelling like the '80's. Over the course of the next few days I will bump up to 8 minutes, then 10 then 12 and then I will be on the beach in the real sun for a whole week!
In one week I will be heading to Turks & Caicos with my family. Just in time too, because I'm ready to loose my mind in the frigid chill of the bullshit that is winter in Michigan. Why do I reside in a state where the weather makes me a vitriolic maniac five months out of the year?
To keep my pasty, winterized epidermis from scorching in a place much closer to the equator, I decided to cram a handful of tanning sessions in at the local fake bake shop before heading south. I fully intended to go for 8 weeks prior to my vacation, but kept putting it off and putting it off until this past Wednesday, when I had 9 days before my departure.
In California, according to TV, the people who work at tanning salons are bubbly, helpful cheerleader types. There, tanning is a sign of health and vitality. In Michigan, it's a sign of being a stripper, having a winter home in Florida or combating Seasonal Affective Disorder. Natalia was not so much a helpful cheerleader as an annoyed minimum income wage earner.
There are now "levels" of beds. Who knew? In a standard get-what-you-pay-for scenario, the options are old skool hex bed which will burn the hell out of you after three minutes and you have to go for weeks and weeks to see any results; a level two bed which is low burning but better tanning in a shorter time and finally the high pressurized no burn, tan in two seconds bed.
Also unlike almost two decades ago, they now have tanning lotion specifically made for using in a tanning bed. You can't use regular sunscreen or lotion, no sir. You have to get the special stuff which is developed for the types of rays used in a tanning bed. They come in a variety of smells almost all of which remind me of the '80's. I picked one that makes me smell like Orange Julius.
The bed they always put me in is called the "Pryzma", all spelled out in tropical letters. It makes me feel kind of cool, like I could be in Hawaii and I might know how to hang ten. I call this bed the UV coffin because I get in and pull the lid over myself, like I'm a reverse vampire protecting myslef from the doom of a cloudy winter. There is a really powerful fan that blasts away all the noise and most of the overbearing part of the heat.
I love that 6 minutes of bright warm, smelling like the '80's. Over the course of the next few days I will bump up to 8 minutes, then 10 then 12 and then I will be on the beach in the real sun for a whole week!
Monday, March 03, 2008
Lights Out...REM...Action!!!
I am lucky, because I have really weird, vivid dreams all the time. Occasionally, they are so visceral and acutely sensory that I wake up exhausted. They often become really good story outlines that I note down and save for future writings.
Last night I had a dream that on my lunch break I went shopping for a strapless bra and ran into an old friend Pam. We ended driving to New York, looking for horses, and going to a restaurant for lunch where they were holding an auction. Henry Rollins was a panelist at the auction and he had three kittens with him. One of the kittens was the size of a Matchbox car and was covered in pink rhinestones. The entire dream, I was worried about getting back to work so I didn't get fired.
One of the peculiar things about my dreams are the settings which seem to be more like movie sets. For example, there is a department store where I often go to shop in my dreams. The set up and feel of the store is exactly the same every dream, where the stairs are, the set up of the racks, the doorways, but the merchandise, employees and purpose change with each dream. I'm never shopping for the same thing or for the same purpose yet it always feels haunting and familiar.
Other locations include a downtown, the interior of the a home, a shopping mall, and a few other specific locations that seem like they are movie sets stored in some warehouse in my brain and are rolled out and dressed specifically for different dreams.
The weirdest part is that these dream places aren't replicas of places I've ever been to in my waking life. There's a sense of intimacy that throws me off every time I got to one of these places while I sleep. I recognize it, but it's totally new, every time.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Hey, remember me?
My friend Mark is rad. He makes movies, he writes novels and screenplays, he's an awesome graphic artist. He has a creative idea and just makes it happen. As a person who thinks myself out of things way before they are anywhere near happening, I find this very impressive. I don't know how he does what he does, but I wish I did. Plus, Mark is brilliant and hilarious.
The other day I was reading his blog where he was writing about a Howard Hughes biography he was reading. Mark talked about how "popular imagination" has a tendency to re-write history and make us alter, or in some cases, completely erase everything that happened. He wrote about the tendency we have of freezing people in time and forgetting everything else that they did. His examples were Howard Hughes being remembered for two foot long fingernails and jars of pee instead of a man who revolutionized air travel and Helen Keller stuck in our memories as a flailing child instead of a radical Socialist who helped found the ACLU.
This lead him to wonder about the last impressions that we leave on people. Not only how we will be remembered after we die, but how we are remembered by someone we lose touch with.
Well, this really struck a nerve with me because I have been thinking about this very thing lately. Being a girl who has moved many times and drifted away from many people, I wonder how some of those people remember me. There have been a few of these people that I have been thinking and dreaming about over the last few weeks. I haven't spoken with either of them in over 10 years, one I dated briefly and the other I loved at first sight and became close friends with. Both relationships ended oddly with both of them dropping out of my life and never calling again.
I'm long since over the fact that they stopped calling and just moved on. Nowadays, I wonder if either of them remember me and if they do, how am I in either of their memories? Both of them knew me when I was wanting to be an actress. Do they see me as a failure because they have never seen my name in lights? Do they assume I'm socked away in some Midwestern town, married with kids because they didn't think I had it in me to do anything else? Will I ever see either one of them again so I can set the record straight?
Mark believes that we owe it to ourselves to write our autobiographies. To give ourselves the opportunity to set the record straight to anyone who would read it. I don't think either Chris or Adam would read it, but it just might help me iron some sense into my weird ass life.
Sidenote: Mark has a "List of 9" on his website. The current list posted is "Nine Movies That Would Be Better If Alfred Hitchcock Was In Them" and it's awesome. My favorite is "The Seven Year Hitch". Check it out on the "Links" section of my blog. Great stuff.
The other day I was reading his blog where he was writing about a Howard Hughes biography he was reading. Mark talked about how "popular imagination" has a tendency to re-write history and make us alter, or in some cases, completely erase everything that happened. He wrote about the tendency we have of freezing people in time and forgetting everything else that they did. His examples were Howard Hughes being remembered for two foot long fingernails and jars of pee instead of a man who revolutionized air travel and Helen Keller stuck in our memories as a flailing child instead of a radical Socialist who helped found the ACLU.
This lead him to wonder about the last impressions that we leave on people. Not only how we will be remembered after we die, but how we are remembered by someone we lose touch with.
Well, this really struck a nerve with me because I have been thinking about this very thing lately. Being a girl who has moved many times and drifted away from many people, I wonder how some of those people remember me. There have been a few of these people that I have been thinking and dreaming about over the last few weeks. I haven't spoken with either of them in over 10 years, one I dated briefly and the other I loved at first sight and became close friends with. Both relationships ended oddly with both of them dropping out of my life and never calling again.
I'm long since over the fact that they stopped calling and just moved on. Nowadays, I wonder if either of them remember me and if they do, how am I in either of their memories? Both of them knew me when I was wanting to be an actress. Do they see me as a failure because they have never seen my name in lights? Do they assume I'm socked away in some Midwestern town, married with kids because they didn't think I had it in me to do anything else? Will I ever see either one of them again so I can set the record straight?
Mark believes that we owe it to ourselves to write our autobiographies. To give ourselves the opportunity to set the record straight to anyone who would read it. I don't think either Chris or Adam would read it, but it just might help me iron some sense into my weird ass life.
Sidenote: Mark has a "List of 9" on his website. The current list posted is "Nine Movies That Would Be Better If Alfred Hitchcock Was In Them" and it's awesome. My favorite is "The Seven Year Hitch". Check it out on the "Links" section of my blog. Great stuff.
Monday, January 21, 2008
For the record
I read over an old blog post from last March, where I was all excited to have not smoked in 36 days. I thought I'd put in my up-to-date non smoking stats, just for poo and giggles. And bragging rights.
Time smoke free: 385 days
Cigarettes NOT smokes: 6931
Money NOT spent on smokes: $1784.48
Right on!
Neighbors part 2.
Now that it's quiet, the ATV is back in the garage and not grinding on my quiet time, I do have to clean up after my rant about my hick neighbor. Clear the air in the argument I'm having with him, in the privacy of my own noggin.
He (Sarge) and his girlfriend (Patty) are actually pretty good kids. Now that I'm in my 30's and my 20's seem so very far away, they are considered kids.
When my dog got out and was romping in the street, although on his way to class, Sarge stopped and got out of his car, gathered her up and when he didn't get a response to knocking at my door, took my furry kid to his house for safe keeping until I got home to collect her.
He had a power washing business for a while. He was one of those guys who went to people's houses to wash their decks and their siding with a ridiculously high pressure, glorified water shooter. He traded services with a tree crew who came over and cut down a rotting black walnut tree that was growing about 4 feet from my house and threatening to fall into it on any given windy day. I could have never afforded the service, but Sarge never charged me a dime.
To try and differentiate "work around the house time" from "relax and play around the house" time, I decided to buy an apron. Whenever I wear the apron, I am cleaning a bathroom or re-organizing a closet. If the apron is on, I am in work mode. This is to try and ease the tension between myself and me, because the two are always fighting about housekeeping. I'm in a constant state of messy because I'm a busy body and I have a million ideas at once (yes, they are all awesome ideas too). So I generate quite a bit of mess. Since I work out my house most of the time, sitting in amongst the messiness, I tend to get on my own ass about housework. So I found a super cool cherry print apron, and on it's maiden voyage for a bout of bathroom scrubbing last spring, I got called outside to sign for a UPS delivery. Patty was just arriving home at that minute and I waved to her from the front porch. Being neighborly (save the last blog entry) I went over to say hello. As we chatted, she inquired about my apron and I gave her the meaning behind. 7 months later, for a Christmas gift, Patty presented me with a new apron to add to my collection. Tied in the middle was a new wooden spoon, because she knew I really liked to cook and bake.
So really, it's not all bad. They are friendly and mostly thoughtful. Patty has broken Sarge of bad habits like having parties 'till 5am on week nights; burning wood in the back yard (both illegal and stupid on postage stamp properties) and leaving on the megawatt outside light that defies all manner of window shades and blasts into my bedroom all night long.
I really hope she makes him get rid of the ATV.
He (Sarge) and his girlfriend (Patty) are actually pretty good kids. Now that I'm in my 30's and my 20's seem so very far away, they are considered kids.
When my dog got out and was romping in the street, although on his way to class, Sarge stopped and got out of his car, gathered her up and when he didn't get a response to knocking at my door, took my furry kid to his house for safe keeping until I got home to collect her.
He had a power washing business for a while. He was one of those guys who went to people's houses to wash their decks and their siding with a ridiculously high pressure, glorified water shooter. He traded services with a tree crew who came over and cut down a rotting black walnut tree that was growing about 4 feet from my house and threatening to fall into it on any given windy day. I could have never afforded the service, but Sarge never charged me a dime.
To try and differentiate "work around the house time" from "relax and play around the house" time, I decided to buy an apron. Whenever I wear the apron, I am cleaning a bathroom or re-organizing a closet. If the apron is on, I am in work mode. This is to try and ease the tension between myself and me, because the two are always fighting about housekeeping. I'm in a constant state of messy because I'm a busy body and I have a million ideas at once (yes, they are all awesome ideas too). So I generate quite a bit of mess. Since I work out my house most of the time, sitting in amongst the messiness, I tend to get on my own ass about housework. So I found a super cool cherry print apron, and on it's maiden voyage for a bout of bathroom scrubbing last spring, I got called outside to sign for a UPS delivery. Patty was just arriving home at that minute and I waved to her from the front porch. Being neighborly (save the last blog entry) I went over to say hello. As we chatted, she inquired about my apron and I gave her the meaning behind. 7 months later, for a Christmas gift, Patty presented me with a new apron to add to my collection. Tied in the middle was a new wooden spoon, because she knew I really liked to cook and bake.
So really, it's not all bad. They are friendly and mostly thoughtful. Patty has broken Sarge of bad habits like having parties 'till 5am on week nights; burning wood in the back yard (both illegal and stupid on postage stamp properties) and leaving on the megawatt outside light that defies all manner of window shades and blasts into my bedroom all night long.
I really hope she makes him get rid of the ATV.
Neighbors part 1.
My redneck neighbor just got an all-terrain-vehicle. He's spent the last 25 minutes trying to get it started and it's been backfiring and sputtering all the while. Rattling the pictures on my wall, Lula's nerves and my patience.
I hate having a hick for a neighbor.
He and his live-in girlfriend have conflicting schedules. She works a 9 to 5 and he goes to school. There is a constant shuffle of their two cars in the driveway, which is a big hassle, because there is no street parking on the street where we live. To remedy the need for him to move his car so she can go to work or her to get her Taurus out of the way so he can get to his exams on time, they now park side by side in the narrow-enough-for-one-car driveway. So she parks two wheels on their lawn and he parks most wheels on mine. Because he is a manly man, he likes to tear in and out of the driveway at high speeds and has taken all of the grass (ok, weeds) with him and has created three enormous ruts in my lawn.
For those of you who are Buffy fans, this guy looks a lot like Spike when he's all vampire bumpy. His eyes are deep set, he has an large upper lip that struggles to cover his massive teeth that are arranged like an aged picket fence. Gross. Plus, he has much less appeal than Spike. Granted, my neighbor doesn't have some super creative writer scripting dialog for him or furthering his character in the stage play of life, but even if he did, I'm not sure he'd bother to read it.
Right now, I really hate him and I want sneak into his yard and pour sugar into the gas tank of both his car and his ATV.
Jerk.
I hate having a hick for a neighbor.
He and his live-in girlfriend have conflicting schedules. She works a 9 to 5 and he goes to school. There is a constant shuffle of their two cars in the driveway, which is a big hassle, because there is no street parking on the street where we live. To remedy the need for him to move his car so she can go to work or her to get her Taurus out of the way so he can get to his exams on time, they now park side by side in the narrow-enough-for-one-car driveway. So she parks two wheels on their lawn and he parks most wheels on mine. Because he is a manly man, he likes to tear in and out of the driveway at high speeds and has taken all of the grass (ok, weeds) with him and has created three enormous ruts in my lawn.
For those of you who are Buffy fans, this guy looks a lot like Spike when he's all vampire bumpy. His eyes are deep set, he has an large upper lip that struggles to cover his massive teeth that are arranged like an aged picket fence. Gross. Plus, he has much less appeal than Spike. Granted, my neighbor doesn't have some super creative writer scripting dialog for him or furthering his character in the stage play of life, but even if he did, I'm not sure he'd bother to read it.
Right now, I really hate him and I want sneak into his yard and pour sugar into the gas tank of both his car and his ATV.
Jerk.
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Year of the Monkeybusiness
It was decided at Goat's New Year's Eve gathering that 2008 is the "The Year of the Monkeybusiness".
Mchan said she desperately needed to stop doing the assumed correct things all the time, I said I needed to stop trying to round my quirky square edges, Jimmy is working to get his brain in a more positive and fun place and Goat is always up for monkeybusiness, so The Year of the Monkeybusiness was born.
While it may take a village to raise a child, it took the four of us to create the theme of 2008. We all felt the need to shake things up, but in a way that still allowed us to live our lives and stay out of jail.
Who says a vegetarian, peace mongering, elementary school teacher can't enjoy a hockey fight or a round of Ultimate Fighting? I am a firm believer that there is a huge difference between the violence people do to each other and sports violence. If two players get in a scrum at a hockey game, it's consensual, they both are wearing padding, it's somewhat expected and there are referees to keep anyone from getting hurt. Same with something like Ultimate Fighting. The fighters are going into the ring to do battle. There are people there to make sure no one gets seriously hurt and watching two guys grapple, box, and wrestle is exciting and primal. There is lots of trash talking, but underneath it all, there is a lot of respect.
This is a year where I live in gray areas, explore creative shenanigans and learn how to keep my somewhat corporate job and stick it to the man at the same time.
I want to create a slogan for our 2008 theme, but trying to get the words "monkey" and "business" into a slogan have created little more than poo flinging pictures in my head.
On a poo note: My friend Mark determined that poo was a much funnier word that poop. Reading over that last paragraph reaffirms how right he is.
Mchan said she desperately needed to stop doing the assumed correct things all the time, I said I needed to stop trying to round my quirky square edges, Jimmy is working to get his brain in a more positive and fun place and Goat is always up for monkeybusiness, so The Year of the Monkeybusiness was born.
While it may take a village to raise a child, it took the four of us to create the theme of 2008. We all felt the need to shake things up, but in a way that still allowed us to live our lives and stay out of jail.
Who says a vegetarian, peace mongering, elementary school teacher can't enjoy a hockey fight or a round of Ultimate Fighting? I am a firm believer that there is a huge difference between the violence people do to each other and sports violence. If two players get in a scrum at a hockey game, it's consensual, they both are wearing padding, it's somewhat expected and there are referees to keep anyone from getting hurt. Same with something like Ultimate Fighting. The fighters are going into the ring to do battle. There are people there to make sure no one gets seriously hurt and watching two guys grapple, box, and wrestle is exciting and primal. There is lots of trash talking, but underneath it all, there is a lot of respect.
This is a year where I live in gray areas, explore creative shenanigans and learn how to keep my somewhat corporate job and stick it to the man at the same time.
I want to create a slogan for our 2008 theme, but trying to get the words "monkey" and "business" into a slogan have created little more than poo flinging pictures in my head.
On a poo note: My friend Mark determined that poo was a much funnier word that poop. Reading over that last paragraph reaffirms how right he is.
Friday, December 07, 2007
Saying
Over the last months, I've had the pleasure of hearing lots of sayings. I've spent time in new places and from these new places have sprung forth sayings that keep rumbling around in my head.
"It's not how the world works, but how you work in the world" -From an email that my brother sent me in response to my fretting about the state and fate of the world and the beings in it.
"I want to make sure we're all singing off of the same song sheet."- First uttered by my ad director in a corporate meeting when she was going into detail about a spreadsheet. I use this one all the time now.
"Comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable." -Said by keynote speaker Martin Sheen at the annual Michigan ACLU fund raiser dinner that I got to go to last Saturday.
"Watch yourself, this could made a goat walk backward." -A warning given to me by a Southerner while handing me a mighty strong cup of coffee.
"Arrogance is ignorance matured." Another Martin Sheen saying.
Funniest things in subject lines of spam email that landed in my email box:
"Pediatrics Taster"
"I would try spraying him before you have him neutered"
"Nobody will know about your problems"
"Be untensil into battery"
"His conyers will brasstown"
"On himself recurring"
"There are no difference!"
Best spam sender's names:
F Kimberly Q Butts
Lewie Throop
Anus Romines
"It's not how the world works, but how you work in the world" -From an email that my brother sent me in response to my fretting about the state and fate of the world and the beings in it.
"I want to make sure we're all singing off of the same song sheet."- First uttered by my ad director in a corporate meeting when she was going into detail about a spreadsheet. I use this one all the time now.
"Comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable." -Said by keynote speaker Martin Sheen at the annual Michigan ACLU fund raiser dinner that I got to go to last Saturday.
"Watch yourself, this could made a goat walk backward." -A warning given to me by a Southerner while handing me a mighty strong cup of coffee.
"Arrogance is ignorance matured." Another Martin Sheen saying.
Funniest things in subject lines of spam email that landed in my email box:
"Pediatrics Taster"
"I would try spraying him before you have him neutered"
"Nobody will know about your problems"
"Be untensil into battery"
"His conyers will brasstown"
"On himself recurring"
"There are no difference!"
Best spam sender's names:
F Kimberly Q Butts
Lewie Throop
Anus Romines
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
BBK
Barbara Bennett Kline
November 20, 1911 - September 20, 2007
One of the most wonderful, powerful, creative women even known. I'm not sure how I'm going to do this life without her. I will ache for her forever.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Weirdo
I feel boring.
I spent my twenties moving around the US, taking whatever job sounded cool and having one crazy experience after another. I road tripped around the country for two months by myself. I've been to acting school and massage therapy school. I dated a guy who ran dungeons for the local S/M scene in the city I lived. I was tear gassed and shot at (with rubber bullets) by cops at many different protests and demonstrations. I sat through a bomb threat at a Mumia rally wondering one moment if the person who called the threat in was serious and realizing in the next moment that if they were, I would be dead, and I sat in anyway. I biked through Ireland for a month by myself in the soft season buzzed on Guinness most of the time.
I'm going to stop revealing my twenty something shenanigans at this point because my Mom and my son read my blog, but you get the idea.
So here I am in my thirties and I feel like I'm already a granny. I happen to love grannies, especially my own, but I don't want to be thought of as one until I'm well into my 80's. Even then I won't start acting like one until a week before I die which will be when I'm 103.
I haven't been to a rally or a demonstration in almost 8 years. I haven't traveled much, gone to school for anything new or learned the best way to restrain someone in a good long time. I have a 9 to 5 job, occasionally sing karaoke, write in my journal and my blog (mostly about the good old days. Horrors!) and have a very steady beau with whom I'm swamped in the love with.
Fuddy duddy doesn't even begin to cover it.
Today I had lunch with a few ladies from GM. I work in the automotive industry, and even though I'm on the back end of operations, I still manage to get out to see our clients here and there when my ad director is in town. I really like the people I deal with at GM, they are helpful to the point of being moms to me. They patiently walk me through procedures as long as it takes for me to understand their complicated billing procedures. They are friendly, sweet and usually spend most of our lunch meetings talking about food (one of my favorite topics).
During the conversation, it grew apparent to me that just because I haven't been on the brink of arrest or exploring a new country alone, those rebellious, inquisitive, unsatisfied parts of me are alive and well and very much who I am.
I'm not sure if it was one of the women telling me that she hated women or the group conversation about the new Britney Spears album being pretty good, but I felt like a bearded lady at a Miss America luncheon. I was rattled by FishTacoMama (NOT her given name!) saying she couldn't read anything "deep" and had to keep her reading limited to "puffy" best sellers. I don't know, maybe it was the part of the conversation where someone said they couldn't stand reading about the plight of the poor, southern African-Americans because it's not like she was going to ever meet these people, that made me feel out of place. Then again, I was probably being "too sensitive".
Walking back to my car after lunch, I fumed and questioned. I really liked these women, really, but I wanted to slap the shit out of all of them. The amount of apathy and prejudice displayed in one hour was more than I could take. The woman hater (CrunchyCrabRoll) was enjoying the benefits of the sacrifice that so many feminists took on to make the world that much better for the ladies. The hater of "deep" reading didn't express any concern for how global warming might affect her child's future or how our national deficit, down the line, will probably fall on the shoulders of her offspring.
One thing I did notice about all these women. They all loved the musical adaptation of "Wicked" but the actual book was too long and full of too much boring information. Maybe that's the problem. There are people who want to dive into the juicy expanse of life and there are people who want to get a happy musical version so they can go on buying crap for really cheap (another big topic of lunch conversation today. For your sake, Dear Reader, I'll save you the slave labor diatribe).
I have always been aware of the issues that are important to me. When I was a kid, I always took the new kid in school under my wing so they wouldn't have to face a new school alone. I brought home strays and wanted to give money to our poor relatives. I've always wanted to fix and help wherever I could.
Lunch today was a great awakening. I learned that my twenties weren't about rebelling or sticking it to the man, my twenties were about finding what really mattered to me. Those things still matter to me. Although I find it sad that feeling and thinking as I do makes me a weirdo and a minority, I also feel empowered because neither Pottery Barn nor E! Entertainment will ever dictate what's important or real and worth fighting for.
I will.
I spent my twenties moving around the US, taking whatever job sounded cool and having one crazy experience after another. I road tripped around the country for two months by myself. I've been to acting school and massage therapy school. I dated a guy who ran dungeons for the local S/M scene in the city I lived. I was tear gassed and shot at (with rubber bullets) by cops at many different protests and demonstrations. I sat through a bomb threat at a Mumia rally wondering one moment if the person who called the threat in was serious and realizing in the next moment that if they were, I would be dead, and I sat in anyway. I biked through Ireland for a month by myself in the soft season buzzed on Guinness most of the time.
I'm going to stop revealing my twenty something shenanigans at this point because my Mom and my son read my blog, but you get the idea.
So here I am in my thirties and I feel like I'm already a granny. I happen to love grannies, especially my own, but I don't want to be thought of as one until I'm well into my 80's. Even then I won't start acting like one until a week before I die which will be when I'm 103.
I haven't been to a rally or a demonstration in almost 8 years. I haven't traveled much, gone to school for anything new or learned the best way to restrain someone in a good long time. I have a 9 to 5 job, occasionally sing karaoke, write in my journal and my blog (mostly about the good old days. Horrors!) and have a very steady beau with whom I'm swamped in the love with.
Fuddy duddy doesn't even begin to cover it.
Today I had lunch with a few ladies from GM. I work in the automotive industry, and even though I'm on the back end of operations, I still manage to get out to see our clients here and there when my ad director is in town. I really like the people I deal with at GM, they are helpful to the point of being moms to me. They patiently walk me through procedures as long as it takes for me to understand their complicated billing procedures. They are friendly, sweet and usually spend most of our lunch meetings talking about food (one of my favorite topics).
During the conversation, it grew apparent to me that just because I haven't been on the brink of arrest or exploring a new country alone, those rebellious, inquisitive, unsatisfied parts of me are alive and well and very much who I am.
I'm not sure if it was one of the women telling me that she hated women or the group conversation about the new Britney Spears album being pretty good, but I felt like a bearded lady at a Miss America luncheon. I was rattled by FishTacoMama (NOT her given name!) saying she couldn't read anything "deep" and had to keep her reading limited to "puffy" best sellers. I don't know, maybe it was the part of the conversation where someone said they couldn't stand reading about the plight of the poor, southern African-Americans because it's not like she was going to ever meet these people, that made me feel out of place. Then again, I was probably being "too sensitive".
Walking back to my car after lunch, I fumed and questioned. I really liked these women, really, but I wanted to slap the shit out of all of them. The amount of apathy and prejudice displayed in one hour was more than I could take. The woman hater (CrunchyCrabRoll) was enjoying the benefits of the sacrifice that so many feminists took on to make the world that much better for the ladies. The hater of "deep" reading didn't express any concern for how global warming might affect her child's future or how our national deficit, down the line, will probably fall on the shoulders of her offspring.
One thing I did notice about all these women. They all loved the musical adaptation of "Wicked" but the actual book was too long and full of too much boring information. Maybe that's the problem. There are people who want to dive into the juicy expanse of life and there are people who want to get a happy musical version so they can go on buying crap for really cheap (another big topic of lunch conversation today. For your sake, Dear Reader, I'll save you the slave labor diatribe).
I have always been aware of the issues that are important to me. When I was a kid, I always took the new kid in school under my wing so they wouldn't have to face a new school alone. I brought home strays and wanted to give money to our poor relatives. I've always wanted to fix and help wherever I could.
Lunch today was a great awakening. I learned that my twenties weren't about rebelling or sticking it to the man, my twenties were about finding what really mattered to me. Those things still matter to me. Although I find it sad that feeling and thinking as I do makes me a weirdo and a minority, I also feel empowered because neither Pottery Barn nor E! Entertainment will ever dictate what's important or real and worth fighting for.
I will.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Southern Man
This is Buck. I met him in Arkansas.
He is a million year old chihuahua who's penis is about 1/3 of his body weight. He is so old that his bark now sounds like the wail of an infant extra terrestrial. He has no teeth, but does not refrain from trying to take your hand off should you attempt to pet him while he is in the arms of another. He stands as a great reminder of determination in the face of the limitations that old age can bring. And that old dogs are just fun to laugh at.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
My fleet.
I have this job that I fell into a year and almost a half ago. Along with learning things like Excel, ad campaign management and setting boundaries for someone with the emotional maturity of rotten cabbage, I have had the rare pleasure of driving a different car just about every week.
I work for a small automotive website and work out of the house of an automotive journalist. Since he needs to drive new cars and report back to the masses, he has a constant stream of cars flowing in and out of his driveway that are loaned to him from the car companies. He drives them, writes about them and gets paid for it. Not a crappy job.
One of my many duties at my job is to schedule the cars. I know what's coming today, what's leaving tomorrow, and what he is to drop off or pick up from the airport when he travels. Since my truck is in need of some expensive repairs and I have spent the money that would go towards that on slimming my bulge of debt, I have taken advantage of the random cars that lay about the driveway and put them to good use driving around, tending to my life in the Motor City. What's there that week is what I drive.
Since I am now in the market for a new car, this has been the year of ultimate test drives.
I have driven everything from the Suzuki Reno to a Bentley Continental GT. It's fun to slip into my flavor of the week and start rummaging for satellite radio stations and free pens. Once, Goat found a $20 dollar bill under one of the rear floor mats, with which he took me to the movies.
Since I use these cars for my day-to-day use, I get to find out which holds the most purchases, which doors stay open when you are grabbing items from the back seat and which ones hungrily pinch your legs in the frame. Most of all, I get to learn all the stuff about the cars that a 15 minute test drive won't let you in on.
Goat has had a great time too. When we first started dating last year, I was driving a VW Phaeton. I came ripping up to his apartment in my $100,000 VW and took him out for ice cream. For Valentine's Day, I slid sideways into his driveway in a BMW 750i upon which some dummy forgot to replace the performance tires with snow tires. The car may have been built on technical ingenuity and sound engineering, but all of that meant exactly squat as I slipped from side to side on 22 inch tires meant only for dry pavement. I'm so glad we didn't die and the car didn't side swipe a dumpster.
It's been funny to see that different cars bring out different attitudes in me and have made me see drivers and driving in a different light. I will write more on this in future entries and I'll even include pictures!
In an act of protest against the growing gap between rich and poor, my dog Lula only throws up in the cars that cost $80,000 or more. Take that Halliburton.
I work for a small automotive website and work out of the house of an automotive journalist. Since he needs to drive new cars and report back to the masses, he has a constant stream of cars flowing in and out of his driveway that are loaned to him from the car companies. He drives them, writes about them and gets paid for it. Not a crappy job.
One of my many duties at my job is to schedule the cars. I know what's coming today, what's leaving tomorrow, and what he is to drop off or pick up from the airport when he travels. Since my truck is in need of some expensive repairs and I have spent the money that would go towards that on slimming my bulge of debt, I have taken advantage of the random cars that lay about the driveway and put them to good use driving around, tending to my life in the Motor City. What's there that week is what I drive.
Since I am now in the market for a new car, this has been the year of ultimate test drives.
I have driven everything from the Suzuki Reno to a Bentley Continental GT. It's fun to slip into my flavor of the week and start rummaging for satellite radio stations and free pens. Once, Goat found a $20 dollar bill under one of the rear floor mats, with which he took me to the movies.
Since I use these cars for my day-to-day use, I get to find out which holds the most purchases, which doors stay open when you are grabbing items from the back seat and which ones hungrily pinch your legs in the frame. Most of all, I get to learn all the stuff about the cars that a 15 minute test drive won't let you in on.
Goat has had a great time too. When we first started dating last year, I was driving a VW Phaeton. I came ripping up to his apartment in my $100,000 VW and took him out for ice cream. For Valentine's Day, I slid sideways into his driveway in a BMW 750i upon which some dummy forgot to replace the performance tires with snow tires. The car may have been built on technical ingenuity and sound engineering, but all of that meant exactly squat as I slipped from side to side on 22 inch tires meant only for dry pavement. I'm so glad we didn't die and the car didn't side swipe a dumpster.
It's been funny to see that different cars bring out different attitudes in me and have made me see drivers and driving in a different light. I will write more on this in future entries and I'll even include pictures!
In an act of protest against the growing gap between rich and poor, my dog Lula only throws up in the cars that cost $80,000 or more. Take that Halliburton.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Yet another 5k!
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My cheerleading section snapped this picture of me at the starting line.
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This is me mere feet from the finish. I was running as hard as I could which actually felt like I was going backwards at the time. I did manage to knock two minutes off my time without barfing at the finish line. Woo hoo!
The race was 3.2 miles that wound through a neighborhood. Along the route, there were people sitting on lawn chairs in their front yard, drinking beer and cheering us on. It was a warm-not-hot day but when you are running faster than you usually do because you don't want to be in last place it does feel like your head might pop. Some of the spectators in the neighborhood put their sprinklers on in the street so us running masochists could find some reprieve from the blood pounding in our heads. That should be a requirement for all races, sprinklers for the runners to run through.
To Put You In The Right Mood…
Over the last year or so, I’ve been suffering a left brain dominant life. I’m really good at my job, which includes gobs of information management. I am a bookkeeper, sales/advertising support staff and online ad campaign manager all within 40 hours each week for a website. My second job is a similar gig where I keep track of who needs to be invoiced when and for what as well as managing all the contact information for all of the advertisers and subscribers to the particular website that I work for. On the side, I am the keeper of the volunteer contact information for a new local non profit organization. I keep lists of our volunteers, who’s involved in which project or event and I send email blasts to each group depending on the current tide of information. All of this equals, what “they” call “marketable skills”. Currently, this equals the death of my creativity.
Not too long ago, I was living exclusively in my right brain. Also known as all art and no bill paying. I was happy there, maybe a little moody, but content. Unfortunately, none of the art was paying any of my bills and I sought some form of employment that moved beyond barely sustaining me. I wanted a “big girl job” with a steady paycheck and some benefits. I love the steady paycheck; it makes it so much easier to bail myself out of the debt I got into when I was acting and waitressing when I know how much money I’m getting every two weeks.
Now I seek balance. Yin and Yang. Left brain and right brain. I’m coming to terms with the fact that despite my fiercest childhood dreams, I’ll never be a movie star. For now, I have to have two and three jobs to work my way out of debt. For some reason, I have used this bit of reality to beat my creative self into unconsciousness, have thrown her down the stairs and locked her in the basement. Like she, not the lack of ever learning about finances and budgeting, has put me into a situation that requires me to work very hard to keep from drowning. Last Saturday, I realized that the debt was not her fault and it’s time to get busy and creative again because I miss the right side of my brain. It’s just so damn fun in there and while I need to work to pay back what I owe, I’m not going to spend time on my deathbed wishing I had spent more time at the office.
In order to resuscitate my creative beast, I have to start in places where I remember that creativity was a happy, impromptu dance and not a matter of conquering or bargaining. All my old mixed tapes are a reminder of those days where the brain halves skipped hand in had, working as a whole unit. It takes more than left brain skills to figure out which song will perfectly fill the last minute and a half on the side of a tape. It takes the right side figuring out which really short song will carry the mood over from the song before it without too bizarre of a twist or creating a new jumping off point that you can’t follow up on. It takes the cooperation of the two brain halves to be able to seamlessly jump from Janis Joplin to Soundgarden to Madonna w/ Prince to Puccini without anyone noticing.
From the almost forgotten top shelf of my office closet have come my cassettes. Inspiring me renew the vows of partnership between the sides of my grey matter and to forge ahead on foreign, yet mutually advantageous ground. This is a new place where “marketable skills” will work in conjunction with creative beasts. Come together…right now…over me. You and me, we’re in this together now. So happy together.
Not too long ago, I was living exclusively in my right brain. Also known as all art and no bill paying. I was happy there, maybe a little moody, but content. Unfortunately, none of the art was paying any of my bills and I sought some form of employment that moved beyond barely sustaining me. I wanted a “big girl job” with a steady paycheck and some benefits. I love the steady paycheck; it makes it so much easier to bail myself out of the debt I got into when I was acting and waitressing when I know how much money I’m getting every two weeks.
Now I seek balance. Yin and Yang. Left brain and right brain. I’m coming to terms with the fact that despite my fiercest childhood dreams, I’ll never be a movie star. For now, I have to have two and three jobs to work my way out of debt. For some reason, I have used this bit of reality to beat my creative self into unconsciousness, have thrown her down the stairs and locked her in the basement. Like she, not the lack of ever learning about finances and budgeting, has put me into a situation that requires me to work very hard to keep from drowning. Last Saturday, I realized that the debt was not her fault and it’s time to get busy and creative again because I miss the right side of my brain. It’s just so damn fun in there and while I need to work to pay back what I owe, I’m not going to spend time on my deathbed wishing I had spent more time at the office.
In order to resuscitate my creative beast, I have to start in places where I remember that creativity was a happy, impromptu dance and not a matter of conquering or bargaining. All my old mixed tapes are a reminder of those days where the brain halves skipped hand in had, working as a whole unit. It takes more than left brain skills to figure out which song will perfectly fill the last minute and a half on the side of a tape. It takes the right side figuring out which really short song will carry the mood over from the song before it without too bizarre of a twist or creating a new jumping off point that you can’t follow up on. It takes the cooperation of the two brain halves to be able to seamlessly jump from Janis Joplin to Soundgarden to Madonna w/ Prince to Puccini without anyone noticing.
From the almost forgotten top shelf of my office closet have come my cassettes. Inspiring me renew the vows of partnership between the sides of my grey matter and to forge ahead on foreign, yet mutually advantageous ground. This is a new place where “marketable skills” will work in conjunction with creative beasts. Come together…right now…over me. You and me, we’re in this together now. So happy together.
A Good Mixed Tape...
Earlier this year, Goat got a sweet Subaru Outback. It was a few years old and had cool accoutrements such as seat heaters, heated windshield wipers and a tape deck. En route to hiking or Mom’s house, we had a blast reliving our high school days and our rebellious twenties listening to our old mixed tapes while ripping down the highway with warm butts. Some of our tapes were gifts from good friends, a few we had made for someone else but they turned out so good that we kept them for ourselves, but most of all they were a way for us to talk using someone else’s words. There was something about expressing my thoughts using someone else’s prose that made me much more daring in making my intentions clear while creating a mix for a boy I had a crush on. In my twenties, I was fond using the creation of mixed tapes to express my innermost feelings; usually turmoil and usually about a guy.
Sadly, after a mere two months with his new-to-him Subie, Goat and the Outback were involved in a high speed, multi car pile up on the highway that closed the whole damn freeway for an hour (save for the drunk driver that crashed through the police barricade, miraculously not adding to the carnage despite the number of victims, cops and first responders that were milling around the closed lanes. He was pulled over immediately and was so drunk and freaked out that he pissed his pants while being cuffed. I’m sure that’s the least of his problems right now, but it still seems so horribly humiliating). Goat is fine; he walked away with one small scratch even though at the time of the crash he had 8 foot pieces of wood he was toting home from a dumpster diving score in the car with him. Goat was so fine, in fact, that he woke up at 5:45 the next morning and ran a 5k trail race, knocking over 2 minutes off his road running time. Impressive. If you are a runner that runs dirt and pavement, that will be even more impressive to you.
Unfortunately, the Subie is a goner. She did her job and absorbed the brunt of the crash into her metal makeup so Goat’s spongy viscera, organic bone structure and spaghetti thin spinal cord were spared. We humans are sheets of wet paper in comparison to the brutish technology we create. He did manage to get a great deal on another used Outback, a few years newer, same color, but no tape deck. No Minor Threat and Misfits mixes on the way to the Art Hop in Kalamazoo; no more explaining how I got from Skin Yard to Bob Dylan to a song from The Little Mermaid soundtrack in three steps, no more favorite songs that I never knew the title to or performer of. Now, we just listen to boring old mixed CDs made in this decade, which isn’t far away enough for me to look back on it fondly.
Sadly, after a mere two months with his new-to-him Subie, Goat and the Outback were involved in a high speed, multi car pile up on the highway that closed the whole damn freeway for an hour (save for the drunk driver that crashed through the police barricade, miraculously not adding to the carnage despite the number of victims, cops and first responders that were milling around the closed lanes. He was pulled over immediately and was so drunk and freaked out that he pissed his pants while being cuffed. I’m sure that’s the least of his problems right now, but it still seems so horribly humiliating). Goat is fine; he walked away with one small scratch even though at the time of the crash he had 8 foot pieces of wood he was toting home from a dumpster diving score in the car with him. Goat was so fine, in fact, that he woke up at 5:45 the next morning and ran a 5k trail race, knocking over 2 minutes off his road running time. Impressive. If you are a runner that runs dirt and pavement, that will be even more impressive to you.
Unfortunately, the Subie is a goner. She did her job and absorbed the brunt of the crash into her metal makeup so Goat’s spongy viscera, organic bone structure and spaghetti thin spinal cord were spared. We humans are sheets of wet paper in comparison to the brutish technology we create. He did manage to get a great deal on another used Outback, a few years newer, same color, but no tape deck. No Minor Threat and Misfits mixes on the way to the Art Hop in Kalamazoo; no more explaining how I got from Skin Yard to Bob Dylan to a song from The Little Mermaid soundtrack in three steps, no more favorite songs that I never knew the title to or performer of. Now, we just listen to boring old mixed CDs made in this decade, which isn’t far away enough for me to look back on it fondly.