I'm not sure how old I was when I fell in love with words, but it's a passionate affair that's been going on for at least 20 years now. I can remember learning new words when I was little, like "cascading," "egalitarian," "diaphanous," and "phantasmagorical," and thinking how certain words had a quality to them as they rolled off the tongue.
I still very much feel that way.
Since I've moved to Pennsylvania, some of the location names are truly fun to say,like,"Wissahickon," "Schyukill," "Manayunk," those are a few examples of words that I absolutely love to enunciate.
When I read anything, I'm always mindful of what words the author uses. Sometimes, writers have a tendency to use pretentious wording just to prop up sub-par writing, and that's annoying.
And it doesn't even have to be a matter of using big words to express a point. Just certain phrases will be etched in my memory for the rest of my life.
From the end of "The Prince of Tides," a passage that sticks with me is "In families there are no crimes past forgiveness and I wish again that there were two lives apportioned to every man and every woman. At the end of every day I drive through the city of Charleston and I cross the bridge that will take me home. I feel the words building inside me, I can't stop them, or tell you why I say them, but as I reach the top of the bridge these words come to me in a whisper. I say these words as a prayer, as regret, as praise, I say: Lowenstein, Lowenstein."
From "The Great Gatsby," a good line is,"Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us."
My favorite poem is "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot. I named a dog T.S. Eliot Gaither once (I called him Eliot, so the other dogs wouldn't make fun of him), but that poem is absolutely breathtaking in its use of language. From the very beginning, I was hooked: "Let us go then, you and I, when the evening is spread out against the sky, like a patient etherized upon a table..." It ends with "We have lingered in the chambers of the sea, by sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown, till human voices wake us, and we drown.
How amazing is that?
Of course, these passages serve another purpose with me; they make me wonder, can I ever create words that will uplift and inspire anyone to the extent that those have touched me and countless others?
Being a frustrated writer at heart, you become obsessed with words and language, but paralyzed by some sort of fear that you'll never be able to articulate what you want to say as succintly and beautifully as you picture it in your head.
I will write a book one day, and it will freak me out, and I'll probably have to go to a mental institution after I finish it, but I am determined to prove that I have something to say that other people want to hear.
And maybe someday, someone will quote my words on a blog or in a journal or even just to a friend and talk about how much those words are etched in their consciousness, and that will be worth it.
Monday, February 28, 2005
Friday, February 25, 2005
Trying to follow my brilliant advice
I find it ironic that yesterday's post was about how well-adjusted and good at coping I am, when the day ended with me questioning everything about myself with a little crying thrown in for good measure.
I like to think it was God's way of saying, "Whoa; you're getting a little full of yourself, Gaither. See if you can handle this."
Not that I view God as a vengeful being, but he takes us down a peg from time to time when we need it, and that's cool.
Okay, why was I crying, you ask. Last week, I had a job interview that I thought went really well. Not only did I think it went really well, I even tried to tell myself that since it was a job that I wasn't all that gung ho about, it wouldn't matter if I didn't get it.
Wow, was I way off the mark.
I received a rejection letter in the mail, after having about four other things put me in a "Guns of the Navarone, TNT-mood," and I promptly fell apart.
I began to think, "Why would they hire me? I'm qualified to do nothing, (not true in the light of day), I must've screwed up my interview, I didn't sound smart enough (impossible)..and on and on and on.."
That whole positive thinking thing didn't really come into play until this morning after I had allowed myself to absolutely wallow in self-pity, self-doubt and disappointment.
Applying for jobs is almost like dating and relationships. You think something looks really good, even though you might not be 100% crazy about it and it has flaws, so you justify that it's a good idea for you at the time.
Then, you start to imagine yourself in the situation, and it doesn't seem so bad. So by the time you've been rejected for something you weren't even sure you wanted, you've already accepted that it's the right thing for you at the time.
Then, you have to start all over.
I'm refusing to let myself be daunted by this. I had my time to be down about it yesterday, and today, my resume will be flying all around the Internet with my eternal hope that's decidedly looking a little worn attached to it.
It is my little dream that when aforementioned company that rejected me comes to their senses, they will call, and I will have the massive satisfaction of saying, "Oh, I'm sorry, I have a really good job. You should've hired me in the first place."
Give me a break, I can still be angry. But I won't pee in their shampoo.
I like to think it was God's way of saying, "Whoa; you're getting a little full of yourself, Gaither. See if you can handle this."
Not that I view God as a vengeful being, but he takes us down a peg from time to time when we need it, and that's cool.
Okay, why was I crying, you ask. Last week, I had a job interview that I thought went really well. Not only did I think it went really well, I even tried to tell myself that since it was a job that I wasn't all that gung ho about, it wouldn't matter if I didn't get it.
Wow, was I way off the mark.
I received a rejection letter in the mail, after having about four other things put me in a "Guns of the Navarone, TNT-mood," and I promptly fell apart.
I began to think, "Why would they hire me? I'm qualified to do nothing, (not true in the light of day), I must've screwed up my interview, I didn't sound smart enough (impossible)..and on and on and on.."
That whole positive thinking thing didn't really come into play until this morning after I had allowed myself to absolutely wallow in self-pity, self-doubt and disappointment.
Applying for jobs is almost like dating and relationships. You think something looks really good, even though you might not be 100% crazy about it and it has flaws, so you justify that it's a good idea for you at the time.
Then, you start to imagine yourself in the situation, and it doesn't seem so bad. So by the time you've been rejected for something you weren't even sure you wanted, you've already accepted that it's the right thing for you at the time.
Then, you have to start all over.
I'm refusing to let myself be daunted by this. I had my time to be down about it yesterday, and today, my resume will be flying all around the Internet with my eternal hope that's decidedly looking a little worn attached to it.
It is my little dream that when aforementioned company that rejected me comes to their senses, they will call, and I will have the massive satisfaction of saying, "Oh, I'm sorry, I have a really good job. You should've hired me in the first place."
Give me a break, I can still be angry. But I won't pee in their shampoo.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Laughter as Prozac
You know, sometimes, life can really suck. I don't necessarily mean that in the "big picture" sense of the phrase either. Sometimes, you oversleep, get a flat tire on the way home from work and get home only to find that your heat is broken -- that kind of sucking.
Although there is something to be said for the existential sucking of life as well. We've all had our moments of "Why me, God? What did I do to deserve this," and I'm sure we've all met those complete strangers in waiting rooms, lines and work situations who feel the need to unburden wildly personal information about just how much their lives suck onto us, the unsuspecting public who can't escape.
Anyway, this leads me to my new philosophy in life. Embrace humor. With all that can truly be a downer in the world, I've adopted a "Hakuna Matada" perspective on things. I've struggled with depression for about seven years off and on, and I realized, other than getting the hell out of a dead-end job I think Satan wanted me to keep and leaving Mississippi, that the way for me to combat my semi-depressive personality is, as cheesy as it sounds, is to find the humor and good in the world and let that be my partial salvation.
Which leads me to what makes me laugh:
1. Funny voices. I will be 80 years old, and if I hear someone do a Yoda voice, I will cough out my false teeth to guffaw. I don't know why, but funny voices are simply the basest way to make me snort. (yeah, sometimes I do, and it feels awesome)
2. Steve Martin. What an incredible comic genius this man is. I was watching Parenthood the other night, and even in a "wholesome" family movie, he's still the funniest man in the cast, and don't even get me started on The Jerk, Planes, Trains and Automobiles and Three Amigos. Those are all in my top funniest movies ever. The singing bush scene alone in Three Amigos is enough to cause me to pull a muscle.
3. When people fall down. I am not a mean person; in fact, I fall down a lot. (refer to earlier broken ankle post) I would never laugh at someone that hurt themselves when they fell, but when someone falls down, the part of me that I probably wish didn't exist simply can't take it. I'm reminded of my friend, who I'll call "E," who, while we were bowling one night, fell back directly on her ass. I was laughing so hard that I had to get other friends to see if she was okay, because I felt that choking out,"Are you alright," through peals of laughter wouldn't be all that appreciated.
4. When my friend Simon sings Billy Joel's "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant." I'll explain. Simon is an awesome singer, really, and he does a great job with the song. However, Simon is Australian, so the first time he sang it, when he got to the part that goes, "Brenda and Eddie...," he said Brender, and my friend Brian leans over, very deadpan to me, and says, "Did he just say Brender," and that was it. Now, whenever there is any karaoke situation, I beg and beg Simon to sing it, because it literally fills me with glee. God love my friends for indulging my behavior.
5. Anything my niece says or does. Seriously, I know I'm a tad bit biased, but the child is funny. She told her mom that she needed to write a check to Santa Claus for her Dora the Explorer dollhouse. She's 3! Whenever you make her mad, basically by telling her no, she says, "You hurt me and my peelings (feelings)." I've actually stolen that one and passed it along to friends, since it comes in handy. On Christmas Eve, she was convinced that everyone that called was Santa Claus, so every time I got a call on my cell phone, she thought I was talking to Santa and had to talk to them. At one point, she was on the phone with my friend, who asked her what Aunt Emily wanted for Christmas, and she said, "Umm...panties." My friend nearly lost it as well.
So anyway, this is just a very, very short account of what keeps me sane, relatively speaking, of course.
I just think that it's so much better to focus on the positive things in the world, because the negatives will literally drive you crazy, and you can't change them anyway.
With my method, you get to quote movies in funny voices and crack yourself up, even if no one else is amused. If you can enjoy yourself, you'll never get lonely.
Although there is something to be said for the existential sucking of life as well. We've all had our moments of "Why me, God? What did I do to deserve this," and I'm sure we've all met those complete strangers in waiting rooms, lines and work situations who feel the need to unburden wildly personal information about just how much their lives suck onto us, the unsuspecting public who can't escape.
Anyway, this leads me to my new philosophy in life. Embrace humor. With all that can truly be a downer in the world, I've adopted a "Hakuna Matada" perspective on things. I've struggled with depression for about seven years off and on, and I realized, other than getting the hell out of a dead-end job I think Satan wanted me to keep and leaving Mississippi, that the way for me to combat my semi-depressive personality is, as cheesy as it sounds, is to find the humor and good in the world and let that be my partial salvation.
Which leads me to what makes me laugh:
1. Funny voices. I will be 80 years old, and if I hear someone do a Yoda voice, I will cough out my false teeth to guffaw. I don't know why, but funny voices are simply the basest way to make me snort. (yeah, sometimes I do, and it feels awesome)
2. Steve Martin. What an incredible comic genius this man is. I was watching Parenthood the other night, and even in a "wholesome" family movie, he's still the funniest man in the cast, and don't even get me started on The Jerk, Planes, Trains and Automobiles and Three Amigos. Those are all in my top funniest movies ever. The singing bush scene alone in Three Amigos is enough to cause me to pull a muscle.
3. When people fall down. I am not a mean person; in fact, I fall down a lot. (refer to earlier broken ankle post) I would never laugh at someone that hurt themselves when they fell, but when someone falls down, the part of me that I probably wish didn't exist simply can't take it. I'm reminded of my friend, who I'll call "E," who, while we were bowling one night, fell back directly on her ass. I was laughing so hard that I had to get other friends to see if she was okay, because I felt that choking out,"Are you alright," through peals of laughter wouldn't be all that appreciated.
4. When my friend Simon sings Billy Joel's "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant." I'll explain. Simon is an awesome singer, really, and he does a great job with the song. However, Simon is Australian, so the first time he sang it, when he got to the part that goes, "Brenda and Eddie...," he said Brender, and my friend Brian leans over, very deadpan to me, and says, "Did he just say Brender," and that was it. Now, whenever there is any karaoke situation, I beg and beg Simon to sing it, because it literally fills me with glee. God love my friends for indulging my behavior.
5. Anything my niece says or does. Seriously, I know I'm a tad bit biased, but the child is funny. She told her mom that she needed to write a check to Santa Claus for her Dora the Explorer dollhouse. She's 3! Whenever you make her mad, basically by telling her no, she says, "You hurt me and my peelings (feelings)." I've actually stolen that one and passed it along to friends, since it comes in handy. On Christmas Eve, she was convinced that everyone that called was Santa Claus, so every time I got a call on my cell phone, she thought I was talking to Santa and had to talk to them. At one point, she was on the phone with my friend, who asked her what Aunt Emily wanted for Christmas, and she said, "Umm...panties." My friend nearly lost it as well.
So anyway, this is just a very, very short account of what keeps me sane, relatively speaking, of course.
I just think that it's so much better to focus on the positive things in the world, because the negatives will literally drive you crazy, and you can't change them anyway.
With my method, you get to quote movies in funny voices and crack yourself up, even if no one else is amused. If you can enjoy yourself, you'll never get lonely.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Scaredy-cat Georgie
Among the many disturbing things associated with the Bush administration, chief in my mind lately has been the attempted hijacking of media organizations to deliver their message and, in the latest, instance, lob softball questions to Bush and White House staff to make them look better.
I realize what an undertaking that must be, indeed, but what the f@#@?
To date, they've paid a broadcast journalist to tout the No Child Left Behind initiative, which clearly did need some help, since even if it were a good idea, it's been so grossly underfunded, that most schools can barely implement it.
I'm not sure which is more alarming, the fact that the administration would pay him, or the fact that a supposed objective journalist would accept the money.
Secondly, the Health and Human Services Department paid not just one, but two journalists to promote Bush's support of marriage..because, you know, marriage is in real trouble, and there was a real sense of urgency to let people know, "Hey, marriage is still here. It's not just for those gays."
But, the latest and most damning instance of shadiness between journalists and the administration is Jeff Gannon, a.k.a. James Guckert. He is a right-wing reporter, formerly of Talon News, who gained incredible access into the White House press corps while using an alias and apparently working as a gay male escort online.
Now, I could give two shits about his being a male escort, although I think it might give new meaning to the unparalleled morality that permeates Bush rhetoric these days.
No, the problem here is much worse. When Guckert was busy bragging about asking Ari Fleischer a question in February 2003, Talon News didn't exist. And Talon is a whole other story. The staff is largely a volunteer staff with no actual journalistic experience, but they do have quite a bit of GOP campaign experience collectively. Funny, that.
So, Guckert, who was not with a legitimate and independent news organization, which are the unofficial criteria for gaining White House access, was allowed to enter daily press briefings using a day pass, that only requires a minimum background check, as a personal ticket to sit among real journalists who have every right to be in that room.
Not only that, there are reporters who have been there for five years who have never asked a president a question, and yet, Guckert lobbed the most inane question to Bush on Jan. 26, and thank God he did and reveal his hand in the process.
When a group of pissed off liberal reporters have your number and you have anything to hide, hang it up. They exposed him for the fraud that he was and unearthed the real problem; how did he get access?
That may or may not become clear in the coming weeks, as Democrats launch their investigation with the Department of Homeland Security to get someone to answer for this, but at least it's been exposed.
And all of this begs the question, why is this administration so afraid of the real press if they have nothing to hide?
How pathetic is it to have to pay journalists and circumvent the security process behind allowing reporters into the White House, just to have President Bush look good?
I think, where this administration is concerned, the notion of the liberal media is out the window. When you have the government regulating what goes on the air and in print, the liberal media seems to be merely the one that's not being paid by Karl Rove.
I realize what an undertaking that must be, indeed, but what the f@#@?
To date, they've paid a broadcast journalist to tout the No Child Left Behind initiative, which clearly did need some help, since even if it were a good idea, it's been so grossly underfunded, that most schools can barely implement it.
I'm not sure which is more alarming, the fact that the administration would pay him, or the fact that a supposed objective journalist would accept the money.
Secondly, the Health and Human Services Department paid not just one, but two journalists to promote Bush's support of marriage..because, you know, marriage is in real trouble, and there was a real sense of urgency to let people know, "Hey, marriage is still here. It's not just for those gays."
But, the latest and most damning instance of shadiness between journalists and the administration is Jeff Gannon, a.k.a. James Guckert. He is a right-wing reporter, formerly of Talon News, who gained incredible access into the White House press corps while using an alias and apparently working as a gay male escort online.
Now, I could give two shits about his being a male escort, although I think it might give new meaning to the unparalleled morality that permeates Bush rhetoric these days.
No, the problem here is much worse. When Guckert was busy bragging about asking Ari Fleischer a question in February 2003, Talon News didn't exist. And Talon is a whole other story. The staff is largely a volunteer staff with no actual journalistic experience, but they do have quite a bit of GOP campaign experience collectively. Funny, that.
So, Guckert, who was not with a legitimate and independent news organization, which are the unofficial criteria for gaining White House access, was allowed to enter daily press briefings using a day pass, that only requires a minimum background check, as a personal ticket to sit among real journalists who have every right to be in that room.
Not only that, there are reporters who have been there for five years who have never asked a president a question, and yet, Guckert lobbed the most inane question to Bush on Jan. 26, and thank God he did and reveal his hand in the process.
When a group of pissed off liberal reporters have your number and you have anything to hide, hang it up. They exposed him for the fraud that he was and unearthed the real problem; how did he get access?
That may or may not become clear in the coming weeks, as Democrats launch their investigation with the Department of Homeland Security to get someone to answer for this, but at least it's been exposed.
And all of this begs the question, why is this administration so afraid of the real press if they have nothing to hide?
How pathetic is it to have to pay journalists and circumvent the security process behind allowing reporters into the White House, just to have President Bush look good?
I think, where this administration is concerned, the notion of the liberal media is out the window. When you have the government regulating what goes on the air and in print, the liberal media seems to be merely the one that's not being paid by Karl Rove.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
I'm not a girl, not yet a woman
You know things are pretty serious when I'm quoting Britney Spears. I can usually only manage to bring out her immortal words when a situation has reached its critical mass.
I'm also reminded of the "Seinfeld" episode in which Jerry and George are in the coffee shop, complaining about women again and Jerry tells George, "This is no way to live. What are we doing here? We're not men. We gotta make some changes."
I feel like I am in an extremely odd transition period in life. I'm 27, well past college, and I am stuck in some sort of maturity limbo.
I work full-time, pay my bills and otherwise function as a successful adult, but I also have a job with no health insurance, I have no savings account, and I discovered this weekend that I didn't even know how to make scrambled eggs.
Now, this might sound rather alarmist, and you might be right, but it is something that I think about from time to time.
Is there an epiphany when you suddenly achieve adulthood, when you just know that you shouldn't eat spicy food before bed or have caffeine after 7 p.m?
I think this is a generational thing, honestly. The majority of my contemporaries are in the same boat as me, except for maybe the health insurance thing. (Don't tell anyone, but I blame John Kerry for that)
I think because it's less common for people to get married and "settle down" at 23 or 24, everyone is waiting and trying to establish themselves in some way. The settling down is hardly even a consideration, and I'm no different.
I'll be a potential sell-out to my generation and say that I want those things desperately. I want to be married and have children, and I'm not ashamed to admit that. I don't feel that it makes me a less driven person, because I want to establish myself first as well. I'm in no hurry to do those things.
But, it would be nice to know, that in five or six years, I don't have to wade through the frappe of torture that is dating.
If I'm this cranky at 27, I can only imagine what a dating delight I'll be at 33, when the selection of decent, available men has dwindled that much more.
In the meantime, I can make a mean pan of scrambled eggs, and I'm working diligently on the health insurance.
I'm also reminded of the "Seinfeld" episode in which Jerry and George are in the coffee shop, complaining about women again and Jerry tells George, "This is no way to live. What are we doing here? We're not men. We gotta make some changes."
I feel like I am in an extremely odd transition period in life. I'm 27, well past college, and I am stuck in some sort of maturity limbo.
I work full-time, pay my bills and otherwise function as a successful adult, but I also have a job with no health insurance, I have no savings account, and I discovered this weekend that I didn't even know how to make scrambled eggs.
Now, this might sound rather alarmist, and you might be right, but it is something that I think about from time to time.
Is there an epiphany when you suddenly achieve adulthood, when you just know that you shouldn't eat spicy food before bed or have caffeine after 7 p.m?
I think this is a generational thing, honestly. The majority of my contemporaries are in the same boat as me, except for maybe the health insurance thing. (Don't tell anyone, but I blame John Kerry for that)
I think because it's less common for people to get married and "settle down" at 23 or 24, everyone is waiting and trying to establish themselves in some way. The settling down is hardly even a consideration, and I'm no different.
I'll be a potential sell-out to my generation and say that I want those things desperately. I want to be married and have children, and I'm not ashamed to admit that. I don't feel that it makes me a less driven person, because I want to establish myself first as well. I'm in no hurry to do those things.
But, it would be nice to know, that in five or six years, I don't have to wade through the frappe of torture that is dating.
If I'm this cranky at 27, I can only imagine what a dating delight I'll be at 33, when the selection of decent, available men has dwindled that much more.
In the meantime, I can make a mean pan of scrambled eggs, and I'm working diligently on the health insurance.
Friday, February 18, 2005
Further proof that I'm not, how they say, "cool"
Yesterday, as I was driving home in the gridlock insanity that is Pennsylvania traffic, I began to sing along to the radio. This is not unusual; I do that all the time, much to the amusement of other drivers quite a bit of the time, but, suddenly, as if snapping out of a stupor, I realized what I was belting out, and I cringed, but was grateful that I was alone.
I was singing "I Will Always Love You" by Whitney Houston so loud, that even with my windows up, people walking by on the street could probably hear me. I laughed at myself, as I often do, and kept right on singing.
Now, there's nothing wrong with my radio, and radio stations in Philadelphia are quite good. I'm sure I could've found some Beatles or U2 or almost anything else that wouldn't make me ashamed to show my face, but I realized that I always sing that song at the top of my lungs when it's on the radio; it's just what I do.
So, I started to think about other nerdy, or what I prefer to call "guilty pleasure" behavior that I engage in on a regular basis, and, wow, the list ain't pretty.
That is not the only song that I warble as loudly as possible. There is also "Candle in the Wind" by Elton John, "More Than Words" by Extreme, "Welcome to the Jungle" by Guns and Roses, "You're So Vain" by Carly Simon and anything by Madonna. Granted, there are more, but those are probably the most indicting.
I had been giving my secret behavior a lot of thought, and this morning, as I was getting ready for work and watching the end of "The Golden Girls," it struck me. Clearly, this is not limited to music. I watch and love "The Golden Girls" on a regular basis. Yes, Brian, go ahead, I know you'll love that.
So, the shows that I watch that I might not (until now, obviously) want the general public to know about are, the aforementioned "Golden Girls," "Saved by the Bell" (only when I'm getting ready in the morning, but I even watch the college years version, so there's really no excuse), "The Cosby Show" (Bill Cosby and his sexual harassing, pudding loving ass are still hilarious on that show) and "American Gladiators." Oh, the shame...
I figured if I am to ever overcome this heinous affliction, I should share it with others. Admission is the first step to recovery.
I should also mention that these are not the only instances of my crimes against pop culture, but I will save some of the others for another day.
I will leave you all with some words from "The Golden Girls" theme song, "Thank you for being a friend, traveled down the road and back again. Your heart is true; you're a pal and a confidante."
I was singing "I Will Always Love You" by Whitney Houston so loud, that even with my windows up, people walking by on the street could probably hear me. I laughed at myself, as I often do, and kept right on singing.
Now, there's nothing wrong with my radio, and radio stations in Philadelphia are quite good. I'm sure I could've found some Beatles or U2 or almost anything else that wouldn't make me ashamed to show my face, but I realized that I always sing that song at the top of my lungs when it's on the radio; it's just what I do.
So, I started to think about other nerdy, or what I prefer to call "guilty pleasure" behavior that I engage in on a regular basis, and, wow, the list ain't pretty.
That is not the only song that I warble as loudly as possible. There is also "Candle in the Wind" by Elton John, "More Than Words" by Extreme, "Welcome to the Jungle" by Guns and Roses, "You're So Vain" by Carly Simon and anything by Madonna. Granted, there are more, but those are probably the most indicting.
I had been giving my secret behavior a lot of thought, and this morning, as I was getting ready for work and watching the end of "The Golden Girls," it struck me. Clearly, this is not limited to music. I watch and love "The Golden Girls" on a regular basis. Yes, Brian, go ahead, I know you'll love that.
So, the shows that I watch that I might not (until now, obviously) want the general public to know about are, the aforementioned "Golden Girls," "Saved by the Bell" (only when I'm getting ready in the morning, but I even watch the college years version, so there's really no excuse), "The Cosby Show" (Bill Cosby and his sexual harassing, pudding loving ass are still hilarious on that show) and "American Gladiators." Oh, the shame...
I figured if I am to ever overcome this heinous affliction, I should share it with others. Admission is the first step to recovery.
I should also mention that these are not the only instances of my crimes against pop culture, but I will save some of the others for another day.
I will leave you all with some words from "The Golden Girls" theme song, "Thank you for being a friend, traveled down the road and back again. Your heart is true; you're a pal and a confidante."
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Reluctant extermination
I am not fond of housekeeping. It strikes me as one of those things you just have to keep doing, like laundry, and it never ceases. I do it, against my will, and I've gotten much better, but that has not always been the case.
When I had a shoebox apartment in Columbus, Mississippi, I was a horrendous housekeeper. The only times I ever did major cleaning were when I had a gentleman friend coming over, and I actually pulled a muscle once while doing frantic cleaning.
The main area of disarray in my apartment was the kitchen. I hardly ever cooked, other than in the microwave, as I didn't know how to operate the gas oven, and I didn't have a dishwasher, so occasionally dishes might pile up for a brief (month-long) period.
One Friday evening, after a particularly grueling week at the job that systematically sucked my soul dry, I was looking forward to an evening in my pajamas of watching movies and doing little else.
As I settled in to watch "The House of Sand and Fog," I noticed something moving in the kitchen out of the corner of my eye. When I turned to look, my eyes met with the eyes of the biggest rat I have ever seen in my life. This was Mugsy, the gangster rat. Did Mugsy run away? No, he took a drag off of his cigar and dared me to do anything about his presence.
I screamed, grabbed the broom and ran toward him. He, in turn, ran toward me, and I threw the broom at him and jumped up on the chair as he disappeared into some crevice in the kitchen, presumably where he had entered.
Where was my fearless guard dog, you ask? Sleeping on the couch and giving me annoying looks while I caused a ruckus. I later came to suspect that he and Mugsy had been having parties during the day while I was at work. They didn't try to hide it, really. The house would reek of cigars, and I found poker chips in the couch.
But, I digress.
I had to set out to destroy this swaggering, gin-swilling rat that had taken up residence in my apartment. I sent for a friend with a cat, and we set the cat loose. No such luck, so I had to cordon off the kitchen from the rest of the apartment with a flat, cardboard box. Let's ignore the fact that a rat could've chewed through aforementioned cardboard box. It made me feel slightly less skeeved out by a rat in my kitchen, and I vowed only to enter the kitchen when absolutely necessary.
Next step: glue traps. What a truly useless invention this is. It stops the mouse, but you are supposed to "set them free," therefore making it a more humane method of trapping. Um..yeah, whatever.
The first of the babies (that's right) became stuck in the glue trap, and feminism aside, I refused to pick up the trap and called a male friend who was frighteningly happy to bludgeon the mouse with the broom.
The second of the babies became stuck while I was alone, thus leaving me and me alone to deal with it. Oy. I had to sweep it outside, while it tried to free itself, the whole time I'm yelling, "Stay on the trap, or I'll kill you now," because, naturally, the mouse understands me.
When I got it outside onto the porch, while asking it for forgiveness for my impending homicide, it managed to move itself to the edge of the porch while still attached to the trap. The thought of it escaping and making it back into the apartment was too much for me, so I ran around to where it had fallen and proceeded to brutally pound it on the head with the broom until I could be certain it was dead.
Incidentally, in case anyone is concerned, I burned that broom in a cleansing ritual after the apartment was dubbed as "clean" by me. (I didn't really, but I did throw the broom away immediately)
After this callous murder of Mouse #2, fearing retribution from a vengeful Mugsy, I called my realtor in a panic," Look, I have mice or rats or something. I've killed two mice in as many weeks. I can't live like this. It's unsanitary, and I won't be paying any more rent until this is taken care of."
So, they showed up the next business day, hunted for Mugsy, and plugged the holes that brought the gangster rat into my life.
I was finally able to completely sanitize my apartment and vowed never to leave that many dishes in the sink again, but I maintain that it was not really my uncleanliness that brought the mice inside.
I think Mugsy was looking for a base of operations, and my dog, Norton, provided some muscle for what he was hoping to accomplish.
I wonder what Mugsy is doing these days. I imagine him as the head rat in a money laundering or cheese mule scheme.
When I had a shoebox apartment in Columbus, Mississippi, I was a horrendous housekeeper. The only times I ever did major cleaning were when I had a gentleman friend coming over, and I actually pulled a muscle once while doing frantic cleaning.
The main area of disarray in my apartment was the kitchen. I hardly ever cooked, other than in the microwave, as I didn't know how to operate the gas oven, and I didn't have a dishwasher, so occasionally dishes might pile up for a brief (month-long) period.
One Friday evening, after a particularly grueling week at the job that systematically sucked my soul dry, I was looking forward to an evening in my pajamas of watching movies and doing little else.
As I settled in to watch "The House of Sand and Fog," I noticed something moving in the kitchen out of the corner of my eye. When I turned to look, my eyes met with the eyes of the biggest rat I have ever seen in my life. This was Mugsy, the gangster rat. Did Mugsy run away? No, he took a drag off of his cigar and dared me to do anything about his presence.
I screamed, grabbed the broom and ran toward him. He, in turn, ran toward me, and I threw the broom at him and jumped up on the chair as he disappeared into some crevice in the kitchen, presumably where he had entered.
Where was my fearless guard dog, you ask? Sleeping on the couch and giving me annoying looks while I caused a ruckus. I later came to suspect that he and Mugsy had been having parties during the day while I was at work. They didn't try to hide it, really. The house would reek of cigars, and I found poker chips in the couch.
But, I digress.
I had to set out to destroy this swaggering, gin-swilling rat that had taken up residence in my apartment. I sent for a friend with a cat, and we set the cat loose. No such luck, so I had to cordon off the kitchen from the rest of the apartment with a flat, cardboard box. Let's ignore the fact that a rat could've chewed through aforementioned cardboard box. It made me feel slightly less skeeved out by a rat in my kitchen, and I vowed only to enter the kitchen when absolutely necessary.
Next step: glue traps. What a truly useless invention this is. It stops the mouse, but you are supposed to "set them free," therefore making it a more humane method of trapping. Um..yeah, whatever.
The first of the babies (that's right) became stuck in the glue trap, and feminism aside, I refused to pick up the trap and called a male friend who was frighteningly happy to bludgeon the mouse with the broom.
The second of the babies became stuck while I was alone, thus leaving me and me alone to deal with it. Oy. I had to sweep it outside, while it tried to free itself, the whole time I'm yelling, "Stay on the trap, or I'll kill you now," because, naturally, the mouse understands me.
When I got it outside onto the porch, while asking it for forgiveness for my impending homicide, it managed to move itself to the edge of the porch while still attached to the trap. The thought of it escaping and making it back into the apartment was too much for me, so I ran around to where it had fallen and proceeded to brutally pound it on the head with the broom until I could be certain it was dead.
Incidentally, in case anyone is concerned, I burned that broom in a cleansing ritual after the apartment was dubbed as "clean" by me. (I didn't really, but I did throw the broom away immediately)
After this callous murder of Mouse #2, fearing retribution from a vengeful Mugsy, I called my realtor in a panic," Look, I have mice or rats or something. I've killed two mice in as many weeks. I can't live like this. It's unsanitary, and I won't be paying any more rent until this is taken care of."
So, they showed up the next business day, hunted for Mugsy, and plugged the holes that brought the gangster rat into my life.
I was finally able to completely sanitize my apartment and vowed never to leave that many dishes in the sink again, but I maintain that it was not really my uncleanliness that brought the mice inside.
I think Mugsy was looking for a base of operations, and my dog, Norton, provided some muscle for what he was hoping to accomplish.
I wonder what Mugsy is doing these days. I imagine him as the head rat in a money laundering or cheese mule scheme.
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Umm..yeah. This pretty much sums it up for me.
KARL ROVE, Bush's long-time political guru and White House adviser:
"As people do better, they start voting like Republicans...
...unless they have too much education and vote Democratic,
which proves there can be too much of a good thing."
"As people do better, they start voting like Republicans...
...unless they have too much education and vote Democratic,
which proves there can be too much of a good thing."
Still on a college schedule..
I love to sleep. There are no two ways about it. If I didn't have to get up for work, I would sleep until at least noon every day. So, it's a good thing that I do have to get up for work, or I would be the most unproductive person in the world.
On any given morning, I have to forcibly make myself get out of bed, and it's not pretty. There are many mornings, like today, when it it harder than usual.
Do you ever notice how, when you're lying in bed and really, really don't want to get up, excuses for not going into work sound brilliant? I can remember using the excuse of "I was up really late last night, because I broke up with my boyfriend, and I just don't think I can make it in," when I had a job on campus in Mississippi. Granted, I had that job for three years, so they cut me more slack than others in the office, but I still can't believe I actually called an employer and said that.
Today, my excuse, and it was totally true, was, "I seem to have overslept. I'll be there within the hour," and I got an extra hour of sleep out of it.
The root of this problem is that I still keep college hours. Well, I don't stay up having existential conversations with cute long-haired boys until 4 a.m. like I did in college, but I do stay up until at least 1 a.m. and expect my body to hop to at 7 every morning.
I can't do it; I'm (dare I say it) getting old. I can't drink a 12-pack and make an 8 a.m. appointment anymore. I can't consistently deprive my body of precious sleep during the week and rationalize that sleeping for 14 hours on the weekend will undo that damage. And even on the weekends, I'm still staying out until at least 3 a.m., so that means a large portion of the next day is completely useless due to my hibernation.
I want to be one of those people who can just pop out of bed at 7 or 8 a.m., no matter what, and brag about all the crap they've gotten accomplished. I'm just not sure that's going to happen any time soon. I realize that if I make myself go to bed by 11, I would be able to do that, but that's the hard part.
I think I've equated being one of "those people" that goes to bed early, as truly accepting that I'm getting old, and I'm not ready to do that yet. I still want to be the girl that people call at midnight during the week to chat, because they know I'll be up.
Granted, it's probably taking a toll on my health, but surely all of the nicotine, alcohol and diet soda that I pour into my body will make up for that.
On any given morning, I have to forcibly make myself get out of bed, and it's not pretty. There are many mornings, like today, when it it harder than usual.
Do you ever notice how, when you're lying in bed and really, really don't want to get up, excuses for not going into work sound brilliant? I can remember using the excuse of "I was up really late last night, because I broke up with my boyfriend, and I just don't think I can make it in," when I had a job on campus in Mississippi. Granted, I had that job for three years, so they cut me more slack than others in the office, but I still can't believe I actually called an employer and said that.
Today, my excuse, and it was totally true, was, "I seem to have overslept. I'll be there within the hour," and I got an extra hour of sleep out of it.
The root of this problem is that I still keep college hours. Well, I don't stay up having existential conversations with cute long-haired boys until 4 a.m. like I did in college, but I do stay up until at least 1 a.m. and expect my body to hop to at 7 every morning.
I can't do it; I'm (dare I say it) getting old. I can't drink a 12-pack and make an 8 a.m. appointment anymore. I can't consistently deprive my body of precious sleep during the week and rationalize that sleeping for 14 hours on the weekend will undo that damage. And even on the weekends, I'm still staying out until at least 3 a.m., so that means a large portion of the next day is completely useless due to my hibernation.
I want to be one of those people who can just pop out of bed at 7 or 8 a.m., no matter what, and brag about all the crap they've gotten accomplished. I'm just not sure that's going to happen any time soon. I realize that if I make myself go to bed by 11, I would be able to do that, but that's the hard part.
I think I've equated being one of "those people" that goes to bed early, as truly accepting that I'm getting old, and I'm not ready to do that yet. I still want to be the girl that people call at midnight during the week to chat, because they know I'll be up.
Granted, it's probably taking a toll on my health, but surely all of the nicotine, alcohol and diet soda that I pour into my body will make up for that.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
This is your President, ladies and gentlemen
"If you're a younger person, you ought to be asking members of Congress and the United States Senate and the president what you intend to do about it. If you see a train wreck coming, you ought to be saying, what are you going to do about it, Mr. Congressman, or Madam Congressman?"—Detroit, Feb. 8, 2005
Why the South rocks
I left the South in August of 2004 to pursue a dream of sorts and work for the John Kerry campaign. I am sad that things worked out the way they did in that arena, but I don't regret the experience one bit.
However, with my decision to stay on in Philadelphia indefinitely, I am now officially a displaced Southerner, a "woman without a region," so to speak.
For people who have never lived in the South, there's no way to explain the experience of living there without actually doing it. It's a completely different culture, pace and sometimes, language.
The food is absolutely unparalleled. I love my Philly cheesesteak sandwiches, but they don't hold a candle to really well-seasoned crawfish and barbecue. Of course, the food is so unhealthy as to require an angioplasty after nearly each meal, but that's the sign of true culinary prowess.
The people are quite bewitching as well. The men are "good old boys," replete with gun racks on their expensive trucks, devotees of SEC football and an unequal love for their mothers.
There's a scene from "Primary Colors," where two character have a "Momma-thon," talking about whose mother suffered the most for her family and who clearly demonstrated more moxy, and it's entirely typical of a conversation you might have with a Southern man about his Momma.
The women are a whole other story. Apparently, there are two types of Southern women, as per "Gone With the Wind." There are Scarletts and Melanies. For those who haven't seen the movie, Melanie is the very genteel archetype who has children and marries her childhood love with no pretense and genuinely thrives on taking care of others.
Then, there are the Scarletts. Scarlett bats her eyelashes at every man within a two-mile radius to get what she wants, has at least three men "on hold" at any given time and schemes to get her true love away from Melanie, even though Melanie dotes on her and takes care of her just as she does her own children. Scarlett is the classic Southern manipulator, even if she does have a change of heart in the end of the movie.
She is the "smile at you while she stabs you in the back" kind of woman, and I'll leave you to draw your own conclusions as to which one I am. Look, there are people who know how to bend people to their will and people who don't. It's a skill, really.
That being said, there are things about the South that I don't miss at all and probably never will.
Those things are racism (it's still rampant), small-mindedness, lack of ambition in people, the humidity, the poverty, and the shoddy education system.
However, no matter where I end up in life, I will always be a Southern girl at heart who used to mud-ride in pick-up trucks and who owns her own rod and reel.
However, with my decision to stay on in Philadelphia indefinitely, I am now officially a displaced Southerner, a "woman without a region," so to speak.
For people who have never lived in the South, there's no way to explain the experience of living there without actually doing it. It's a completely different culture, pace and sometimes, language.
The food is absolutely unparalleled. I love my Philly cheesesteak sandwiches, but they don't hold a candle to really well-seasoned crawfish and barbecue. Of course, the food is so unhealthy as to require an angioplasty after nearly each meal, but that's the sign of true culinary prowess.
The people are quite bewitching as well. The men are "good old boys," replete with gun racks on their expensive trucks, devotees of SEC football and an unequal love for their mothers.
There's a scene from "Primary Colors," where two character have a "Momma-thon," talking about whose mother suffered the most for her family and who clearly demonstrated more moxy, and it's entirely typical of a conversation you might have with a Southern man about his Momma.
The women are a whole other story. Apparently, there are two types of Southern women, as per "Gone With the Wind." There are Scarletts and Melanies. For those who haven't seen the movie, Melanie is the very genteel archetype who has children and marries her childhood love with no pretense and genuinely thrives on taking care of others.
Then, there are the Scarletts. Scarlett bats her eyelashes at every man within a two-mile radius to get what she wants, has at least three men "on hold" at any given time and schemes to get her true love away from Melanie, even though Melanie dotes on her and takes care of her just as she does her own children. Scarlett is the classic Southern manipulator, even if she does have a change of heart in the end of the movie.
She is the "smile at you while she stabs you in the back" kind of woman, and I'll leave you to draw your own conclusions as to which one I am. Look, there are people who know how to bend people to their will and people who don't. It's a skill, really.
That being said, there are things about the South that I don't miss at all and probably never will.
Those things are racism (it's still rampant), small-mindedness, lack of ambition in people, the humidity, the poverty, and the shoddy education system.
However, no matter where I end up in life, I will always be a Southern girl at heart who used to mud-ride in pick-up trucks and who owns her own rod and reel.
Monday, February 14, 2005
More things that turn me into a mushy girl...
1. Peter Gabriel's song "In Your Eyes" and the image of John Cusack holding his radio aloft in "Say Anything," trying to win back Diane Court.
2. Being with someone who can name 10 reasons why you are awesome in about 15 seconds.
3. The movie "Love Story." I watched it for the first time by myself and was so sad when it ended, I called everyone I knew to "talk me through it."
4. Good poetry, not made up poetry that makes you want to run away. Relying on classics is looked upon favorably.
5. A man who can sing..playing guitar is a bonus, but the singing is key.
2. Being with someone who can name 10 reasons why you are awesome in about 15 seconds.
3. The movie "Love Story." I watched it for the first time by myself and was so sad when it ended, I called everyone I knew to "talk me through it."
4. Good poetry, not made up poetry that makes you want to run away. Relying on classics is looked upon favorably.
5. A man who can sing..playing guitar is a bonus, but the singing is key.
Ode to a commercial holiday
Today is Valentine's Day, which is really nothing more than an excuse for florists, candy makers and card companies to make people feel guilty if they don't buy all of the accoutrements that are advertised ad nauseum starting pretty shortly after Christmas.
That being said, they are some genuinely romantic and sweet things that can and should be enjoyed the entire year, not just on Feb. 14.
Generally, I'm not a big sap, but I have my really shmoopy moments, just like anyone.
Things that curl my toes are: someone taking care of me when I am sick, "The Way We Were,"(the movie) getting flowers for no reason at all, cooking for me, giving me something as small as a book I've mentioned liking "just because," compliments, the song "The Way You Look Tonight," seeing a couple that has been married for 40 years still obviously in love with each other, massages and bubble baths, a really intelligent conversation that also makes me laugh, jazz, and the ability to cuddle together well.
That is certainly not the whole list; I could do an entire entry just on songs and movies that reduce me to "a big girl's blouse," as a friend would say, but I don't want anyone to get nauseous reading today.
Feel free to add what makes all of you lose it, romantically.
That being said, they are some genuinely romantic and sweet things that can and should be enjoyed the entire year, not just on Feb. 14.
Generally, I'm not a big sap, but I have my really shmoopy moments, just like anyone.
Things that curl my toes are: someone taking care of me when I am sick, "The Way We Were,"(the movie) getting flowers for no reason at all, cooking for me, giving me something as small as a book I've mentioned liking "just because," compliments, the song "The Way You Look Tonight," seeing a couple that has been married for 40 years still obviously in love with each other, massages and bubble baths, a really intelligent conversation that also makes me laugh, jazz, and the ability to cuddle together well.
That is certainly not the whole list; I could do an entire entry just on songs and movies that reduce me to "a big girl's blouse," as a friend would say, but I don't want anyone to get nauseous reading today.
Feel free to add what makes all of you lose it, romantically.
Friday, February 11, 2005
arghghgh
I don't know why the Dean picture won't go above the post like I want it to. I've republished it three times. I give up; f-ing computers.
And we going to the grassroots level..and we're going to the base.. and we're gonna take back our party..yee-haa!!!
God bless Howard Dean. Yes, I'm talking about that Howard Dean who screeched his way out of the 2004 Democratic nomination, which, by the way, was so distorted by the media and not at all how his spirited speech came across to those that were there.
The Democratic Party is in trouble. It's as clear as can be, and until Dean's name was floated to head up the DNC, I had little hope as to how the party was going to regenerate and get out of their present quagmire.
I fully maintain that the presidential election was the Democrats to lose. I would bet that at least 20% of people who voted for Bush did not in fact cast a vote of confidence for W, but were so confused as to what Kerry would do, they were afraid of "changing horses in midstream." I heard that phrase many, many times while canvassing for the DNC, and my stock answer was,"Well, if you're in a war, don't you want a fresh horse who's had rest to help finish what you've started?" Sometimes, people considered that, but mostly, they were afraid of Kerry and couldn't connect with him or his ideas.
Howard Dean was the primary darling until the Iowa caucus and the New Hampshire primary. What happened with Dean was simple. He didn't make for an attractive candidate for the Democrats, and the Republicans were shit scared of the huge following he had and the fact that he could galvanize untold amounts of money and support like no candidate seen in recent years.
So, they both basically cut him loose. When "the scream heard round the world" hit the media, that was it. They both found an excuse to portray him as the unglued, unstable candidate, and his fate was sealed.
His supporters were left with all of this excitement that he stirred and were then forced to throw their lot in with John Kerry, a vastly inferior candidate in terms of making people care, but a "safe" choice, that was electable.
I am thoroughly excited that Dean has decided to forget how screwed he got by Democrats and offer his brand of moxy to the DNC chair position. He is the kind of man, if everything goes as it should, can return that excitement and hope back to the party.
No more sour grapes about how the election was lost, no more "anyone but Bush" rhetoric; Dean can get us back to the grassroots level, that level that makes people remember why they care about this country in this first place. He can bring us back to why people choose to be Democrats rather than why they choose against being Republicans.
We have a party to be proud of, and it's time we started demonstrating why. You go, Howard Dean, and you can scream all you want.
The Democratic Party is in trouble. It's as clear as can be, and until Dean's name was floated to head up the DNC, I had little hope as to how the party was going to regenerate and get out of their present quagmire.
I fully maintain that the presidential election was the Democrats to lose. I would bet that at least 20% of people who voted for Bush did not in fact cast a vote of confidence for W, but were so confused as to what Kerry would do, they were afraid of "changing horses in midstream." I heard that phrase many, many times while canvassing for the DNC, and my stock answer was,"Well, if you're in a war, don't you want a fresh horse who's had rest to help finish what you've started?" Sometimes, people considered that, but mostly, they were afraid of Kerry and couldn't connect with him or his ideas.
Howard Dean was the primary darling until the Iowa caucus and the New Hampshire primary. What happened with Dean was simple. He didn't make for an attractive candidate for the Democrats, and the Republicans were shit scared of the huge following he had and the fact that he could galvanize untold amounts of money and support like no candidate seen in recent years.
So, they both basically cut him loose. When "the scream heard round the world" hit the media, that was it. They both found an excuse to portray him as the unglued, unstable candidate, and his fate was sealed.
His supporters were left with all of this excitement that he stirred and were then forced to throw their lot in with John Kerry, a vastly inferior candidate in terms of making people care, but a "safe" choice, that was electable.
I am thoroughly excited that Dean has decided to forget how screwed he got by Democrats and offer his brand of moxy to the DNC chair position. He is the kind of man, if everything goes as it should, can return that excitement and hope back to the party.
No more sour grapes about how the election was lost, no more "anyone but Bush" rhetoric; Dean can get us back to the grassroots level, that level that makes people remember why they care about this country in this first place. He can bring us back to why people choose to be Democrats rather than why they choose against being Republicans.
We have a party to be proud of, and it's time we started demonstrating why. You go, Howard Dean, and you can scream all you want.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Hear me roar
Women rock; I'm not trying to make a grand, sweeping political statement or offend any of my male contemporaries. Men are okay, too, but there are just some areas where women absolutely blow them away, and I think that's awesome.
This struck me last night as I was having a couple of cocktails with a female friend. We were being goofy and unwinding, having not seen each other in a couple of weeks, and generally just having a good time.
At one point in the night, another girl was standing behind us, looking a little lost, and she said to me, "I can't believe he's late again." I kind of looked at her, and she told me that she was supposed to meet her guy friend for his birthday, but he was 20 minutes late. And that's all it took. She and my friend and I started a nearly two-hour conversation just from that, laughing and if you had looked at us, you would've thought that we'd known each other forever.
We even made plans to meet up at a later point, as we all live in the same semi-boring town.
Later, as my face finally began to stop hurting from laughing so hard and genuinely enjoying the two of them, I thought about how fortunate women are to have those connections with each other.
My best friend Amanda and I can and have had marathon phone conversations about nothing. But it's not that it's nothing. It's that kind of "nothing" that keeps me from climbing a clock tower and picking people off. Those valuable conversations let me unload about men, work, whatever I want, and I get to hear about what's going on with her.
We support each other through reassurances, positivity and really an almost blind loyalty to each other, meaning neither of us can do any wrong in each other's eyes, and sometimes you need that person who props you up no matter what and tells you that you rock.
So, yeah, you men can continue to make $1.00 for every $.75 I make, and you can impress everyone by writing your name in the snow, but I'll take my gender any day.
Plus, our skin is softer.
This struck me last night as I was having a couple of cocktails with a female friend. We were being goofy and unwinding, having not seen each other in a couple of weeks, and generally just having a good time.
At one point in the night, another girl was standing behind us, looking a little lost, and she said to me, "I can't believe he's late again." I kind of looked at her, and she told me that she was supposed to meet her guy friend for his birthday, but he was 20 minutes late. And that's all it took. She and my friend and I started a nearly two-hour conversation just from that, laughing and if you had looked at us, you would've thought that we'd known each other forever.
We even made plans to meet up at a later point, as we all live in the same semi-boring town.
Later, as my face finally began to stop hurting from laughing so hard and genuinely enjoying the two of them, I thought about how fortunate women are to have those connections with each other.
My best friend Amanda and I can and have had marathon phone conversations about nothing. But it's not that it's nothing. It's that kind of "nothing" that keeps me from climbing a clock tower and picking people off. Those valuable conversations let me unload about men, work, whatever I want, and I get to hear about what's going on with her.
We support each other through reassurances, positivity and really an almost blind loyalty to each other, meaning neither of us can do any wrong in each other's eyes, and sometimes you need that person who props you up no matter what and tells you that you rock.
So, yeah, you men can continue to make $1.00 for every $.75 I make, and you can impress everyone by writing your name in the snow, but I'll take my gender any day.
Plus, our skin is softer.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
The biggest influence of my life
This post might be a little more serious than others, but, oh, well, you'll get over it.
Yesterday would've been my grandfather's birthday. He died three years ago after suffering from years of heart trouble and then having a stroke the previous year before he died.
I really miss him. I called my grandmother because I knew she would be thinking about him more than usual, and I was struck by how much I still miss him after talking about him with her, even three years later.
He was such an amazing man. If there was ever anything that I didn't know (shocking though that may be), I knew that he was the person to ask. He never went to college, but he was easily the smartest person I've ever known.
He got me interested in politics when I was about seven years old. I remember him railing against the television when he decided that Reagan was no longer the way to go, and he would explain the nuances of politics and the news to me like an adult, not like I was seven years old. Half the time, I had no idea what he was talking about, but I'm almost positive that I was the only seven-year-old who knew about the evils of voodoo economics.
He told me stories about when he was in the Navy during World War II. He didn't talk a lot about that time of his life until about 10 years before he died, but his face would change as he talked about all of the exotic locales he had been to while in the war. He had the usual colorful stories involving bar incidents and some of his Navy cohorts, and I'm sure that he left out quite a few salty tales that I wish I could hear.
When he would baby-sit me, we would take walks around town, "little adventures," and invariably end up at our church. In the empty sanctuary, we would have miniature sermons, each choosing our favorite hymns and reading our favorite Bible verses.
Before he died, he had gotten to the point that he didn't read as much anymore and felt like doing little more than lying down. I think a part of me knew that he had made peace with the fact that it was his time, and while I was sad, and continue to be sad, I will always be glad that he is no longer in pain.
I delivered a eulogy at his funeral, and it's one of the hardest things I've ever done. I talked about a lot of the things that I've mentioned here, and I chose to remember how amazing his life was and how he was a constant source of light in our family.
I wish he had been alive to see me go to work for the John Kerry campaign. Not just because he would've been proud, and he would've, but because I would've called him with every little detail about what I was doing, and he would've relished each morsel.
Before I moved to Philly, when I was cleaning out my apartment, I found a box of keepsakes that were his, and I had a conversation with one of his pictures, so to speak. I asked him if I was doing the right thing, and I just felt that he approved and would've wanted me to pursue my dreams.
I know, that no matter what, I will always want to seek his approval for those kinds of decisions in my life, and I know that he is always watching out for me.
And that makes me feel that things are right in the world. Everyone should be so lucky to have that kind of guardian angel.
Yesterday would've been my grandfather's birthday. He died three years ago after suffering from years of heart trouble and then having a stroke the previous year before he died.
I really miss him. I called my grandmother because I knew she would be thinking about him more than usual, and I was struck by how much I still miss him after talking about him with her, even three years later.
He was such an amazing man. If there was ever anything that I didn't know (shocking though that may be), I knew that he was the person to ask. He never went to college, but he was easily the smartest person I've ever known.
He got me interested in politics when I was about seven years old. I remember him railing against the television when he decided that Reagan was no longer the way to go, and he would explain the nuances of politics and the news to me like an adult, not like I was seven years old. Half the time, I had no idea what he was talking about, but I'm almost positive that I was the only seven-year-old who knew about the evils of voodoo economics.
He told me stories about when he was in the Navy during World War II. He didn't talk a lot about that time of his life until about 10 years before he died, but his face would change as he talked about all of the exotic locales he had been to while in the war. He had the usual colorful stories involving bar incidents and some of his Navy cohorts, and I'm sure that he left out quite a few salty tales that I wish I could hear.
When he would baby-sit me, we would take walks around town, "little adventures," and invariably end up at our church. In the empty sanctuary, we would have miniature sermons, each choosing our favorite hymns and reading our favorite Bible verses.
Before he died, he had gotten to the point that he didn't read as much anymore and felt like doing little more than lying down. I think a part of me knew that he had made peace with the fact that it was his time, and while I was sad, and continue to be sad, I will always be glad that he is no longer in pain.
I delivered a eulogy at his funeral, and it's one of the hardest things I've ever done. I talked about a lot of the things that I've mentioned here, and I chose to remember how amazing his life was and how he was a constant source of light in our family.
I wish he had been alive to see me go to work for the John Kerry campaign. Not just because he would've been proud, and he would've, but because I would've called him with every little detail about what I was doing, and he would've relished each morsel.
Before I moved to Philly, when I was cleaning out my apartment, I found a box of keepsakes that were his, and I had a conversation with one of his pictures, so to speak. I asked him if I was doing the right thing, and I just felt that he approved and would've wanted me to pursue my dreams.
I know, that no matter what, I will always want to seek his approval for those kinds of decisions in my life, and I know that he is always watching out for me.
And that makes me feel that things are right in the world. Everyone should be so lucky to have that kind of guardian angel.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Time marches on...across my face
Okay, I'm 27 years old, and I have gray hair and laugh lines. The laugh lines I don't mind so much, because I tell myself they give me character, but the gray hair is another story.
I am absolutely freaked out beyond belief to turn 30 in a little over two years. Everyone who knows me knows how much I am dreading it, and most people ask me, "Why?"
The truth is, I'm not entirely sure.
I am just slightly vain, so I would appreciate it if my face stayed in its present state with no additional wrinkles or character lines. The hair thing is negligible since a little dye here, a little dye there, and gray hair is but a memory. Hell, I don't even know what color my hair should be right now since I've been dyeing it whatever color strikes my fancy for the last three years.
I think it's just that age, "30." It belies a certain maturity, like you should've accomplished something worthwhile or at least own a set of matching dishes. I currently possess none of those qualities.
I frequently have to put a $5.00 pack of cigarettes on my debit card b/c I never have any cash, I don't own any of the furniture in my apartment, and my car has been making the most god awful noise for about three months now, and I have yet to take it to the mechanic.
These are not portents for a person ready to turn 30.
I acknowledge that I'm more mature than I used to be, and I get along okay, but I just feel like there are things that I wanted to have in place before that milestone came along, and I haven't achieved them yet.
Of course, this is a perfect example of the ridiculously needless pressure I put on myself for things over which I have little control, so maybe I am ready for adulthood after all.
I would just like to say that even though the idea of Botox, the actual injection of poison into your face to take away wrinkles, makes my skin crawl, if I start to see a party of crows' feet on my face, I'll inject ebola in there to make it smooth again.
Vain? Who's vain?
Two and a half years 'til D-Day..
I am absolutely freaked out beyond belief to turn 30 in a little over two years. Everyone who knows me knows how much I am dreading it, and most people ask me, "Why?"
The truth is, I'm not entirely sure.
I am just slightly vain, so I would appreciate it if my face stayed in its present state with no additional wrinkles or character lines. The hair thing is negligible since a little dye here, a little dye there, and gray hair is but a memory. Hell, I don't even know what color my hair should be right now since I've been dyeing it whatever color strikes my fancy for the last three years.
I think it's just that age, "30." It belies a certain maturity, like you should've accomplished something worthwhile or at least own a set of matching dishes. I currently possess none of those qualities.
I frequently have to put a $5.00 pack of cigarettes on my debit card b/c I never have any cash, I don't own any of the furniture in my apartment, and my car has been making the most god awful noise for about three months now, and I have yet to take it to the mechanic.
These are not portents for a person ready to turn 30.
I acknowledge that I'm more mature than I used to be, and I get along okay, but I just feel like there are things that I wanted to have in place before that milestone came along, and I haven't achieved them yet.
Of course, this is a perfect example of the ridiculously needless pressure I put on myself for things over which I have little control, so maybe I am ready for adulthood after all.
I would just like to say that even though the idea of Botox, the actual injection of poison into your face to take away wrinkles, makes my skin crawl, if I start to see a party of crows' feet on my face, I'll inject ebola in there to make it smooth again.
Vain? Who's vain?
Two and a half years 'til D-Day..
Monday, February 07, 2005
Fuhgeddaboutit
I love the Mafia. Well, let me clarify. I love the Mafia portrayed by Hollywood. I considered this fact the other night when I was enjoying "Donnie Brasco" on cable. Here is what a dork I am: I planned my evening around watching this movie, because I absolutely love it.
Furthermore, I was doubly excited because I've been reading the book that Joe Pistone, a.k.a. Donnie Brasco, the FBI agent the movie is based on, wrote with one of the heads of the Bonnano crime family.
Some of you are now saying to yourself, "Is Emily okay? Is our friend who we knew was slightly askew more disturbed than we had thought?" No, no, at least, I don't think so. Let me try to explain.
Everyone who has ever seen "The Godfather" (parts 1 and 2, let's not talk about part 3) knows how cool these guys look. You got a problem with somebody? You whack 'em. If you're in the Mafia, you own certain neighborhoods and everybody gives you respect..and money..they give you money that you don't really have to do a helluva lot for, except intimidate them.
Nobody fucks with you, and I have this unhealthy one-time dream of being a gangster girlfriend...fuhgeddaboutit. And I'm about to abandon my feminist beliefs for just a minute. (I said it was a dream) Okay, you have this swaggery guy who is "in charge," he puts you up in an apartment that is central to him being able to see you, you don't want to work, you don't have to work, he pays for all your stuff..all you have to do is see him when he can get away from his wife. I fully realize on a logical level what a morally reprehensible lifestyle this is, but on the face of it, like on "The Sopranos," man, it looks like a sweet deal.
Before I moved to Philadelphia, noting its close proximity to New Jersey, I briefly considered trying to realize my "gangster girlfriend" dream. But, true to form, once I met a few people from New Jersey (no offense to the Garden State), I began to think the dream was definitely better than the reality ever would be, so now I'm content to drool over Tony Soprano when I can and learn to be content with that.
I think that the root of my Mafia obsession is explained fairly easily. Normally, I adhere to certain beliefs when it comes to men. In theory, I don't like really macho men who order women around and act overly masculine. That whole ordering for me, telling me what I'm going to do and not do, that does not fly with me.
But, for whatever reason, I honestly do like a certain amount of braggadocio and more than a little of that Frank Sinatra swagger in a man. Bottom line, I'm not going to say I don't want a man to cry. Men should definitely be able to cry when they feel the need to, but somewhere along the lines, some men turned into wusses trying to "embrace their feminine sides," and that is something that I will never find attractive.
So, if I have to choose between Sensitive Ponytail Man and Michael Corleone, who will I choose? Fugheddaboutit.
Furthermore, I was doubly excited because I've been reading the book that Joe Pistone, a.k.a. Donnie Brasco, the FBI agent the movie is based on, wrote with one of the heads of the Bonnano crime family.
Some of you are now saying to yourself, "Is Emily okay? Is our friend who we knew was slightly askew more disturbed than we had thought?" No, no, at least, I don't think so. Let me try to explain.
Everyone who has ever seen "The Godfather" (parts 1 and 2, let's not talk about part 3) knows how cool these guys look. You got a problem with somebody? You whack 'em. If you're in the Mafia, you own certain neighborhoods and everybody gives you respect..and money..they give you money that you don't really have to do a helluva lot for, except intimidate them.
Nobody fucks with you, and I have this unhealthy one-time dream of being a gangster girlfriend...fuhgeddaboutit. And I'm about to abandon my feminist beliefs for just a minute. (I said it was a dream) Okay, you have this swaggery guy who is "in charge," he puts you up in an apartment that is central to him being able to see you, you don't want to work, you don't have to work, he pays for all your stuff..all you have to do is see him when he can get away from his wife. I fully realize on a logical level what a morally reprehensible lifestyle this is, but on the face of it, like on "The Sopranos," man, it looks like a sweet deal.
Before I moved to Philadelphia, noting its close proximity to New Jersey, I briefly considered trying to realize my "gangster girlfriend" dream. But, true to form, once I met a few people from New Jersey (no offense to the Garden State), I began to think the dream was definitely better than the reality ever would be, so now I'm content to drool over Tony Soprano when I can and learn to be content with that.
I think that the root of my Mafia obsession is explained fairly easily. Normally, I adhere to certain beliefs when it comes to men. In theory, I don't like really macho men who order women around and act overly masculine. That whole ordering for me, telling me what I'm going to do and not do, that does not fly with me.
But, for whatever reason, I honestly do like a certain amount of braggadocio and more than a little of that Frank Sinatra swagger in a man. Bottom line, I'm not going to say I don't want a man to cry. Men should definitely be able to cry when they feel the need to, but somewhere along the lines, some men turned into wusses trying to "embrace their feminine sides," and that is something that I will never find attractive.
So, if I have to choose between Sensitive Ponytail Man and Michael Corleone, who will I choose? Fugheddaboutit.
Friday, February 04, 2005
The Forrest Gump-ing of Emily
When I was about eight years old, my parents had my IQ tested. At the time, I really had no idea what that meant. I went to this woman's house who administered IQ tests, answered a bunch of questions, solved some puzzles, and I think I got cookies. I feel sure the cookies registered more resoundingly with me than anything, but, nonetheless.
When we got home, my mother was very excited over the results and told my father immediately. "152, that's right, that's how high it is." To which he looked a little incredulous and said, "Are you serious?"
I had no idea what they were talking about until they began to talk about moving me up a grade because I was a little more special than the other kids in my class, and I would do better in school if I let the school advance me.
I absolutely refused to do this. After I began to understand what they were talking about, I said no. I was already one of the youngest and smallest in my class, and I knew I might've been a little smarter than some of my friends, but I also knew how to tone it down enough to fit in with other kids.
Thus began a pattern. I'm not bragging about this by any means. But when you're a little kid, and you know things that no one else your age or even three times your age knows, it's not exactly a good thing in terms of fitting in.
Also, I was a little obnoxious once I realized that I was "smart." I would go around taunting my sister, "Well, I have a 152 IQ, do you?" Yes, I was obnoxious at birth, I think.
I did my best to fit in when I was in elementary school and junior high and by high school, I realized that the best way to deal with it was to surround myself with other smart people. If it took me that long to figure it out, you have to wonder about the validity of IQ tests, huh?
And by the time I got to college, I felt completely at home. I loved discussing lofty communication theories, the tenets of feminism and philosophical ideals at their best. I was challenged for the first time and surrounded by people who could carry on intelligent conversations that sometimes exceeded what I knew.
At first, that worried me, but then I realized that it was better that way. The fact that I actually got to learn was awesome, and I relished it.
Now, five years post-college, I am getting DUMB. I'm not challenged in that everyday way that going to class on a regular basis affords, and sometimes I can barely articulate what it is I'm trying to say. I still have tons of intelligent friends who discuss so many things that I am interested in, but my brain seems to be in hovercraft mode sometimes, dangling over the idea, but not quite connecting with the ground.
I want so badly to go back to school, because I know, that personally, I have to constantly exercise my brain as though it were a muscle in training for a marathon in order to feel like that obnoxious eight-year-old who got free cookies for solving puzzles again.
When we got home, my mother was very excited over the results and told my father immediately. "152, that's right, that's how high it is." To which he looked a little incredulous and said, "Are you serious?"
I had no idea what they were talking about until they began to talk about moving me up a grade because I was a little more special than the other kids in my class, and I would do better in school if I let the school advance me.
I absolutely refused to do this. After I began to understand what they were talking about, I said no. I was already one of the youngest and smallest in my class, and I knew I might've been a little smarter than some of my friends, but I also knew how to tone it down enough to fit in with other kids.
Thus began a pattern. I'm not bragging about this by any means. But when you're a little kid, and you know things that no one else your age or even three times your age knows, it's not exactly a good thing in terms of fitting in.
Also, I was a little obnoxious once I realized that I was "smart." I would go around taunting my sister, "Well, I have a 152 IQ, do you?" Yes, I was obnoxious at birth, I think.
I did my best to fit in when I was in elementary school and junior high and by high school, I realized that the best way to deal with it was to surround myself with other smart people. If it took me that long to figure it out, you have to wonder about the validity of IQ tests, huh?
And by the time I got to college, I felt completely at home. I loved discussing lofty communication theories, the tenets of feminism and philosophical ideals at their best. I was challenged for the first time and surrounded by people who could carry on intelligent conversations that sometimes exceeded what I knew.
At first, that worried me, but then I realized that it was better that way. The fact that I actually got to learn was awesome, and I relished it.
Now, five years post-college, I am getting DUMB. I'm not challenged in that everyday way that going to class on a regular basis affords, and sometimes I can barely articulate what it is I'm trying to say. I still have tons of intelligent friends who discuss so many things that I am interested in, but my brain seems to be in hovercraft mode sometimes, dangling over the idea, but not quite connecting with the ground.
I want so badly to go back to school, because I know, that personally, I have to constantly exercise my brain as though it were a muscle in training for a marathon in order to feel like that obnoxious eight-year-old who got free cookies for solving puzzles again.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Broken bones
I broke my ankle about a year and a half ago, and boy, did that suck.
Let me set it up for you. I was out having some cocktails and wearing sandals with a really steep heel. Because I am short like a Smurf, I sometimes try to pretend that I'm actually not a midget by wearing shoes with a heel. Well, that's what I did before I broke my ankle. I don't do that anymore. I had a very emotional goodbye with several pairs of shoes after the "incident."
But I digress. So, I'm hanging out at the Sports Page, a lovely watering hole in a double-wide trailer, and I'm about to leave. Before I leave, I yell inside to one of my friends, being oh, so clever, and when I turn around, I trip over the handicapped (oh, irony) ramp, and all of my weight lands on my left ankle.
At this point, I just feel stupid, as I don't think anything is broken, and at least 10 people have just witnessed my utter clumsiness. As I try to get up, I think, "hmm..that hurts, but it can't be broken."
At the same time this is happening, an after-hours party is being organized, that for some reason, I just have to go to.
Enter my logical friend Simon who tells me, "Emily, you need to go to the emergency room, I think, or at the very least, go home." I'm not having it. I tell him I'm going to the party whether he takes me or not, that I'm fine and quit trying to tell me what to do.
So, I go to the party, which was, incidentally, NOT worth it, and I have to be carried inside and placed on the couch, because I seriously cannot put weight on my ankle.
Finally, at something like 4 a.m., I decide I'm ready to go home and have to again be helped to the car. Simon takes me home, and he has to help me struggle to the door, while we argue about the intelligence of my having gone to the party.
This was all put into sharp perspective the next day when I got out of bed and literally fell onto the floor, then realizing perhaps something was indeed wrong with my ankle. To add insult to injury, I had to call Simon to help me when I had insisted the night before I didn't need any help. My dog, Norton, will always have a special place in his heart for Simon, who took him outside, as I was unable to, and he relieved himself for about five minutes straight. (the dog, not Simon)
It was broken, I found out the next day when I went to the doctor, and I had to wear a bright red cast for three weeks, followed by a boot for another three weeks. I had to shower with a bag over my cast, I fell about 15 times with my crutches, and I had to send my dog to my parents because I couldn't walk him.
It was not a fun time, but I did lose some weight, because hoisting my body around for six weeks was the most exercise I had done in a while.
So, the moral of the story is that I don't wear heels anymore, and I understand that being stubborn is not always the best way to handle a situation.
Let me set it up for you. I was out having some cocktails and wearing sandals with a really steep heel. Because I am short like a Smurf, I sometimes try to pretend that I'm actually not a midget by wearing shoes with a heel. Well, that's what I did before I broke my ankle. I don't do that anymore. I had a very emotional goodbye with several pairs of shoes after the "incident."
But I digress. So, I'm hanging out at the Sports Page, a lovely watering hole in a double-wide trailer, and I'm about to leave. Before I leave, I yell inside to one of my friends, being oh, so clever, and when I turn around, I trip over the handicapped (oh, irony) ramp, and all of my weight lands on my left ankle.
At this point, I just feel stupid, as I don't think anything is broken, and at least 10 people have just witnessed my utter clumsiness. As I try to get up, I think, "hmm..that hurts, but it can't be broken."
At the same time this is happening, an after-hours party is being organized, that for some reason, I just have to go to.
Enter my logical friend Simon who tells me, "Emily, you need to go to the emergency room, I think, or at the very least, go home." I'm not having it. I tell him I'm going to the party whether he takes me or not, that I'm fine and quit trying to tell me what to do.
So, I go to the party, which was, incidentally, NOT worth it, and I have to be carried inside and placed on the couch, because I seriously cannot put weight on my ankle.
Finally, at something like 4 a.m., I decide I'm ready to go home and have to again be helped to the car. Simon takes me home, and he has to help me struggle to the door, while we argue about the intelligence of my having gone to the party.
This was all put into sharp perspective the next day when I got out of bed and literally fell onto the floor, then realizing perhaps something was indeed wrong with my ankle. To add insult to injury, I had to call Simon to help me when I had insisted the night before I didn't need any help. My dog, Norton, will always have a special place in his heart for Simon, who took him outside, as I was unable to, and he relieved himself for about five minutes straight. (the dog, not Simon)
It was broken, I found out the next day when I went to the doctor, and I had to wear a bright red cast for three weeks, followed by a boot for another three weeks. I had to shower with a bag over my cast, I fell about 15 times with my crutches, and I had to send my dog to my parents because I couldn't walk him.
It was not a fun time, but I did lose some weight, because hoisting my body around for six weeks was the most exercise I had done in a while.
So, the moral of the story is that I don't wear heels anymore, and I understand that being stubborn is not always the best way to handle a situation.
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
Happy birthday, Jilly Fox
My amazing, beautiful and brilliant niece Jillian turns three years old today. I can't believe she is already that old, not that it's old, but it literally seems like yesterday that she was born.
I've been a little sad the last few days because I couldn't be there for her birthday, and I don't want to miss out on any of the big things in her life, but that will not always be the case, so I'm trying not to feel too guilty. I got to talk to her on the phone over the weekend, as my parents threw her a party, and I got to hear about the Strawberry Shortcake cake, and how much she liked the Dora blocks I gave her, and I will talk to her tonight after she goes to Chuck E. Cheese. Well, I'll talk to her after she calms down from going to Chuck E. Cheese. Whether I will actually understand anything she says in her lactose-induced fever is another story.
I don't know when it happened, but I absolutely fell in love with children sometime in the last five years.
When I was in high school and even college, I could be frequently caught saying, "No, no, I don't really want to have kids. I don't really like kids."
My, how our biological clocks can change our minds.
Now, when I see any form of a cute little kid, I am reduced to one of "those" people who makes little sense and is purely focused on making said kid laugh and want to hug me.
And every time, there's this little noise or shift inside me that is most definitely my uterus literally aching.
I am in no hurry to have children, however, I want to make that clear should certain people read this and run for the hills.
I am 27 years old, and I have plenty of time, but it's nice to know that I have that want inside me.
So, back to my original sentiment. Happy third birthday, Jillian. I love you and wish I could be there to play whack-a-mole with you at Chuck E. Cheese.
I've been a little sad the last few days because I couldn't be there for her birthday, and I don't want to miss out on any of the big things in her life, but that will not always be the case, so I'm trying not to feel too guilty. I got to talk to her on the phone over the weekend, as my parents threw her a party, and I got to hear about the Strawberry Shortcake cake, and how much she liked the Dora blocks I gave her, and I will talk to her tonight after she goes to Chuck E. Cheese. Well, I'll talk to her after she calms down from going to Chuck E. Cheese. Whether I will actually understand anything she says in her lactose-induced fever is another story.
I don't know when it happened, but I absolutely fell in love with children sometime in the last five years.
When I was in high school and even college, I could be frequently caught saying, "No, no, I don't really want to have kids. I don't really like kids."
My, how our biological clocks can change our minds.
Now, when I see any form of a cute little kid, I am reduced to one of "those" people who makes little sense and is purely focused on making said kid laugh and want to hug me.
And every time, there's this little noise or shift inside me that is most definitely my uterus literally aching.
I am in no hurry to have children, however, I want to make that clear should certain people read this and run for the hills.
I am 27 years old, and I have plenty of time, but it's nice to know that I have that want inside me.
So, back to my original sentiment. Happy third birthday, Jillian. I love you and wish I could be there to play whack-a-mole with you at Chuck E. Cheese.
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