Well, to my fans, all five of you, the blog will only be updated periodically now, as I am no longer at a super-boring job that affords me a ton of free time. I'm sure that you're all really upset, but perhaps this means that my postings will no longer contain stream-of-consciousness type information, but will be chock full of meaningful, intelligent prose (yea, right). A girl can dream.
I've had some offers for guest bloggers, but I feel that would compromise the vision in this yellow dog's head.
Stay tuned for future posts when I can do them. I know you'll all be on pins and needles.
Friday, April 29, 2005
Friday, April 22, 2005
The First Amendment makes strange bedfellows
Okay, apparently, Jane Fonda was signing her new book in Kansas City, Missouri, yesterday when a Vietnam veteran spat tobacco juice at her as a way of letting her know he didn't so much agree with her stance against the war and felt the need to let her know it over 30 years after her anti-war actions.
It set off a bit of a media storm, especially at Fox News, and I use the word, news, loosely. Naturally, they began running footage of her Vietnam-era trip, and it seems to me that it was almost like they wanted to say,"Look, this is still so recent, look, there she is..," when the man was at fault here.
If you want to speak out against someone like an intelligent person, then do so. Spitting disgusting tobacco juice at someone at a crowded book signing really only serves to make you look like an inbred hayseed, rather than an intelligent man with a thought-out point.
I was trying to imagine the thought process behind it. Did he tell his children, "Hey, kids, Daddy's gonna go spit tobacky juice at that ther liberal Hollywood lady. Aren't you proud?"
I'm sure they'll treasure the news stories generated by their redneck father causing a scene when, if he wanted to protest her visit, he could've created a sign and stood outside, or even voiced his objections in the arena.
An excerpt from a news article:
"She is responsible for a lot of my friends, a lot of my buddies, a lot of my brothers being listed on 'the wall'," he said, referring to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, which lists 58,000 casualties from the war.
I think that's a bit strong. Since when are anti-war protesters responsible for the death of soldiers in battle? That mantle would be squarely placed on those who made the decisions to go to war, in fact the very same people that individuals like Fonda are objecting to.
We had no damn business being in Vietnam, which reminds me of something now...I wonder what that could be (maybe it'll come to me)...and maybe the vets should be pissed off at the government that sent them there rather than certain people who were trying to get them home.
She was photographed in an anti-aircraft carrier and claims she didn't mean to be, that she was merely touring the facilities with the Vietnamese. Now, I agree that this was a stupid thing to do. When we're at war, whether you agree or don't, you shouldn't try to do things that could affect troop morale or put yourself in a position in which it seems like you support the enemy, but I really do think it was a case of a ditzy actress trying to make a name for herself and was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
It also happened over 30 years ago. Do we want to hold people accountable for those actions? I think if that's the case, our fearless President better start damage control over the things delving into his past can and have brought out.
I don't agree with the war in Iraq; does that mean someone who has served in the Middle East should hate me? Hardly. I fully and wholeheartedly support every single soldier that is fighting in our military today. That doesn't mean that I agree with the governmental policies that put them there, and no one can tell me that I can't think that.
That's the absolutely brilliant thing about this country. It affords the freedom to say and express yourself however you choose, except for assaulting someone, including spitting on them. It protects me; it protects Michael A. Smith of Kansas City, Missouri, should he ever decide to voice his opinions without behaving like Boss Hog; and it protects Jane Fonda.
God Bless America.
It set off a bit of a media storm, especially at Fox News, and I use the word, news, loosely. Naturally, they began running footage of her Vietnam-era trip, and it seems to me that it was almost like they wanted to say,"Look, this is still so recent, look, there she is..," when the man was at fault here.
If you want to speak out against someone like an intelligent person, then do so. Spitting disgusting tobacco juice at someone at a crowded book signing really only serves to make you look like an inbred hayseed, rather than an intelligent man with a thought-out point.
I was trying to imagine the thought process behind it. Did he tell his children, "Hey, kids, Daddy's gonna go spit tobacky juice at that ther liberal Hollywood lady. Aren't you proud?"
I'm sure they'll treasure the news stories generated by their redneck father causing a scene when, if he wanted to protest her visit, he could've created a sign and stood outside, or even voiced his objections in the arena.
An excerpt from a news article:
"She is responsible for a lot of my friends, a lot of my buddies, a lot of my brothers being listed on 'the wall'," he said, referring to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, which lists 58,000 casualties from the war.
I think that's a bit strong. Since when are anti-war protesters responsible for the death of soldiers in battle? That mantle would be squarely placed on those who made the decisions to go to war, in fact the very same people that individuals like Fonda are objecting to.
We had no damn business being in Vietnam, which reminds me of something now...I wonder what that could be (maybe it'll come to me)...and maybe the vets should be pissed off at the government that sent them there rather than certain people who were trying to get them home.
She was photographed in an anti-aircraft carrier and claims she didn't mean to be, that she was merely touring the facilities with the Vietnamese. Now, I agree that this was a stupid thing to do. When we're at war, whether you agree or don't, you shouldn't try to do things that could affect troop morale or put yourself in a position in which it seems like you support the enemy, but I really do think it was a case of a ditzy actress trying to make a name for herself and was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
It also happened over 30 years ago. Do we want to hold people accountable for those actions? I think if that's the case, our fearless President better start damage control over the things delving into his past can and have brought out.
I don't agree with the war in Iraq; does that mean someone who has served in the Middle East should hate me? Hardly. I fully and wholeheartedly support every single soldier that is fighting in our military today. That doesn't mean that I agree with the governmental policies that put them there, and no one can tell me that I can't think that.
That's the absolutely brilliant thing about this country. It affords the freedom to say and express yourself however you choose, except for assaulting someone, including spitting on them. It protects me; it protects Michael A. Smith of Kansas City, Missouri, should he ever decide to voice his opinions without behaving like Boss Hog; and it protects Jane Fonda.
God Bless America.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Too much information?
On my way to work this morning, I got behind a car that had a "Baby on Board" sticker. Jesus, I didn't know they still made those, to be honest. Remember how those were everywhere at one point in the late '80s/early '90s. I never really understood the point of it.
Is the idea that obviously I would be headed to plow into the car, but, oh, wait, there's a baby in there, so I'll crash into someone childless.
I tend to think that it's more to let everyone who passes your car know that you, in fact, have a baby, like, "Look at me; I've contributed to society. I have a baby."
Which leads me to people imparting information to other people that only seems to serve the purpose of validating their lives.
There's a "Seinfeld" episode, one of the really early ones, and there's a scene that is still one of my favorites.
All of the gang goes to this horrible party in Long Island, and Elaine gets stuck talking to this woman and the conversation goes like this:
Annoying woman: Mary, have you seen my fiance? Where is my fiance? My fiance; I seem to have lost my fiance. The poor baby.
Elaine: Maybe the dingo ate your baby.
And the woman looks at her like she's on drugs and gets up, presumably to find her fiance.
I work with a guy who is quite odd and has the personality of a shoe and yet, every time I happen to be outside on a smoke break and am trying to make conversation with him, he invariably mentions his fiancee. A typical exchange:
Me: The weather is nice.
Weird guy: Yeah, my fiancee said that very same thing to me this morning.
Me: Ah. Yeah, I hope it stays this way.
Weird guy: So does my fiancee. We're getting married, you know.
I don't know if he thinks I'm trying to hit on him (he would be wrong), but I feel that it's more likely that he's so clearly bizarre, he needs the world to know that he is, in fact, loved by a woman.
It's funny, when I was engaged, fiance just didn't roll off the tongue. I ended up saying something like "This is Josh, he's my boyfri...ance. And I was always mildly uncomfortable when people noticed my engagement ring and asked me when the wedding was.
Now, there could be a number of reasons for this: I had no business getting married, I knew it was a match made in hell, or, and I choose to believe this, I just don't need to broadcast details of my life in order to validate myself.
I hate meeting people in an elevator, waiting room, etc..when, within about five minutes, I know that: they're divorced, they have ungrateful children, they've recently come out of the closet, or that antibiotic cream really paid off on that rash in their nether regions..
There is some stuff that simply needs to be kept to one's self.
I suppose it's ironic that I say that as I'm writing this for a blog on the Internet. But, whatever, do as I say, not as I do.
Is the idea that obviously I would be headed to plow into the car, but, oh, wait, there's a baby in there, so I'll crash into someone childless.
I tend to think that it's more to let everyone who passes your car know that you, in fact, have a baby, like, "Look at me; I've contributed to society. I have a baby."
Which leads me to people imparting information to other people that only seems to serve the purpose of validating their lives.
There's a "Seinfeld" episode, one of the really early ones, and there's a scene that is still one of my favorites.
All of the gang goes to this horrible party in Long Island, and Elaine gets stuck talking to this woman and the conversation goes like this:
Annoying woman: Mary, have you seen my fiance? Where is my fiance? My fiance; I seem to have lost my fiance. The poor baby.
Elaine: Maybe the dingo ate your baby.
And the woman looks at her like she's on drugs and gets up, presumably to find her fiance.
I work with a guy who is quite odd and has the personality of a shoe and yet, every time I happen to be outside on a smoke break and am trying to make conversation with him, he invariably mentions his fiancee. A typical exchange:
Me: The weather is nice.
Weird guy: Yeah, my fiancee said that very same thing to me this morning.
Me: Ah. Yeah, I hope it stays this way.
Weird guy: So does my fiancee. We're getting married, you know.
I don't know if he thinks I'm trying to hit on him (he would be wrong), but I feel that it's more likely that he's so clearly bizarre, he needs the world to know that he is, in fact, loved by a woman.
It's funny, when I was engaged, fiance just didn't roll off the tongue. I ended up saying something like "This is Josh, he's my boyfri...ance. And I was always mildly uncomfortable when people noticed my engagement ring and asked me when the wedding was.
Now, there could be a number of reasons for this: I had no business getting married, I knew it was a match made in hell, or, and I choose to believe this, I just don't need to broadcast details of my life in order to validate myself.
I hate meeting people in an elevator, waiting room, etc..when, within about five minutes, I know that: they're divorced, they have ungrateful children, they've recently come out of the closet, or that antibiotic cream really paid off on that rash in their nether regions..
There is some stuff that simply needs to be kept to one's self.
I suppose it's ironic that I say that as I'm writing this for a blog on the Internet. But, whatever, do as I say, not as I do.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Merrily, merrily, merrily
This morning, as I was driving to work, gripping the steering wheel with hands of rage as usual, something kind of funny happened. Even though I'm in a state of clench when I'm in traffic, I can't not sing along to the radio. So, while I'm generally annoyed, I'm also singing at the top of my lungs to "Maggie May" by Rod Stewart while simultaneously checking my cell phone to see what time it is.
And the reason that I have to do that is that the clock in my car, along with my alarm clock at home is about 35 minutes fast, so I never really know what time it is.
Everybody does that trick, right? Except for me, it no longer helps me to be on time, I just never know what time it actually is.
So, anyway, as I look up from my cell phone, there's a guy in the lane next to me laughing. At me. Because I'm singing rather animatedly. This happens quite a bit, and normally, I kind of get flustered and break eye contact, but this morning, I just laughed right back and kinda shrugged my shoulders to indicate, "Yeah, you caught me." It made the remainder of my commute a little more bearable.
Yesterday, during a particularly hideous day at work, I went outside for my 3:30ish smoke break. Now, I look forward to this for a number of reasons. The weather is awesome, and this is one of the few times I get to go outside during the day, smoking does calm me down a little (at least in my head it does) and by taking my break at 3:30, it means the hell that is my workday is almost over.
So, I'm outside, enjoying my cigarette, having just lit it, and what appeared to be a red wasp kind of just popped up in front of my face. So, I did what I've been doing since I was 5 and that consists of running away like an idiot, even though every logical piece of advice regarding things that sting you tells you to be still and just get them to go away.
So, I ran around the parking lot, yelling "Sonofabitch," that is, until I ran into the glass door, with my head, mind you, and, realizing that the stupid thing was still on my sleeve, entered the code more quickly than I ever have before, while knocking the gangster wasp off me.
Thank GOD no one saw me, and I feel sure that when I came back inside, everyone was wondering why I was that much out of breath, but I chose not to share it.
And, when I drove home, again in the lovely commute that makes me want to turn homicidal, I realized that my cell phone had been cut off, with no warning, not because I hadn't paid the bill, but because Sprint decides after an arbitrary point, that if you have a certain amount of minutes over your allotted minutes, regardless of how much money you've given them, they cut it off without telling you, even if this is your only phone, and masked bandits could kidnap you at any moment, with your cell phone being your only link to the outside world.
So, while waiting the up to four hours for my payment to go through, I had to borrow my roommate's boyfriend's phone to make calls, trying to assure people that "No, I'm not poor, I swear. Sprint just sucks."
But you know what? After sharing all of that, things could be A LOT worse, so I'm venting, but not complaining. There's a subtle difference.
And the reason that I have to do that is that the clock in my car, along with my alarm clock at home is about 35 minutes fast, so I never really know what time it is.
Everybody does that trick, right? Except for me, it no longer helps me to be on time, I just never know what time it actually is.
So, anyway, as I look up from my cell phone, there's a guy in the lane next to me laughing. At me. Because I'm singing rather animatedly. This happens quite a bit, and normally, I kind of get flustered and break eye contact, but this morning, I just laughed right back and kinda shrugged my shoulders to indicate, "Yeah, you caught me." It made the remainder of my commute a little more bearable.
Yesterday, during a particularly hideous day at work, I went outside for my 3:30ish smoke break. Now, I look forward to this for a number of reasons. The weather is awesome, and this is one of the few times I get to go outside during the day, smoking does calm me down a little (at least in my head it does) and by taking my break at 3:30, it means the hell that is my workday is almost over.
So, I'm outside, enjoying my cigarette, having just lit it, and what appeared to be a red wasp kind of just popped up in front of my face. So, I did what I've been doing since I was 5 and that consists of running away like an idiot, even though every logical piece of advice regarding things that sting you tells you to be still and just get them to go away.
So, I ran around the parking lot, yelling "Sonofabitch," that is, until I ran into the glass door, with my head, mind you, and, realizing that the stupid thing was still on my sleeve, entered the code more quickly than I ever have before, while knocking the gangster wasp off me.
Thank GOD no one saw me, and I feel sure that when I came back inside, everyone was wondering why I was that much out of breath, but I chose not to share it.
And, when I drove home, again in the lovely commute that makes me want to turn homicidal, I realized that my cell phone had been cut off, with no warning, not because I hadn't paid the bill, but because Sprint decides after an arbitrary point, that if you have a certain amount of minutes over your allotted minutes, regardless of how much money you've given them, they cut it off without telling you, even if this is your only phone, and masked bandits could kidnap you at any moment, with your cell phone being your only link to the outside world.
So, while waiting the up to four hours for my payment to go through, I had to borrow my roommate's boyfriend's phone to make calls, trying to assure people that "No, I'm not poor, I swear. Sprint just sucks."
But you know what? After sharing all of that, things could be A LOT worse, so I'm venting, but not complaining. There's a subtle difference.
Monday, April 18, 2005
What's the opposite of a health nut?
This weekend, I had the pleasure of watching "Super Size Me," a documentary by a guy named Morgan Spurlock who went on a diet of nothing but McDonald's food for an entire month.
The deal was, he ate everything on the menu at least once (even the Filet O' Fish, blech), and every time they asked him if he wanted to "super size," he did. All in all, he super-sized 9 times.
When he began, he weighed 185 and was in pretty good shape. He had 11% body fat and a cholesterol of 165. When he finished, he weighed 210, his body fat was 23% and his cholesterol was around 220. Also, every doctor that he went to told him that he had harmed his liver quite a bit by eating that much fat and sugar, even advising him to end his experiment early, but he didn't.
It took him almost 6 months to lose all of the weight. Crazy.
So, I started to think about all of the unhealthy things I do, and it's really quite sobering.
Now, I genuinely don't eat fast food that often. Every once in a while, I might get breakfast from McDonald's, but that's about it. And that's the most positive thing I can say about my health regiment.
I drink diet soda like there's nothing else in the world to drink. I am addicted to Diet Vanilla Pepsi. I used to be addicted to Mountain Dew, so that's a slight improvement, but diet drinks, while they don't contain sugar, contain aspartame, which has been linked to cancer. So, it's a question of preferring to be fat or preferring to increase your risk of cancer. Lovely choice.
As aforementioned, I smoke roughly a pack of cigarettes a day. I can't even begin to list all the adverse effects smoking has on a person. I have been smoking now for 12 years. That is crazy. I'm giving serious thought to quitting, as I am tired of being out of breath all the time and really tired of smelling like smoke. We'll see how that goes.
Now, I don't drink alcohol super often, maybe once or twice a week, but when I do, I drink too much at once. I suspect the reason my stomach seems to have regained part of its pre-Pennsylvania girth is that oh-so-tasty Pennsylvania treat, Yuengling lager. I truly love this beer, and it's starting to be a problem. Not a 12-step problem, but a "When's the baby due"? problem, and that's not good.
Let's see..I also either get way too much sleep or not enough, which has been linked to a number of health problems, and I never exercise. Oh, and I eat frozen food way too often to be considered a healthy eater.
So, I've clearly got some work cut out for myself.
Step one is to start going to the gym and eating better. I'm starting to eat a little better, but I really need to make an effort in that area, and I have GOT to go to the gym. Besides the stomach issue, I've had these jiggly areas under my arms for longer than I care to say, and you know what, I don't like 'em. I want Linda Hamilton in "Terminator 2" arms..not really, I think that would scare me, but you get the picture.
So, when I drag my lazy ass to the gym and maybe cut the I.V. of Diet Vanilla Pepsi, I'll be sure to let everyone know how the exercise and healthy living is treating me. Well, I'm probably a little ahead of myself. First, let's get through the beginnings of the exercise, and then we'll go from there.
Beefcake!!
The deal was, he ate everything on the menu at least once (even the Filet O' Fish, blech), and every time they asked him if he wanted to "super size," he did. All in all, he super-sized 9 times.
When he began, he weighed 185 and was in pretty good shape. He had 11% body fat and a cholesterol of 165. When he finished, he weighed 210, his body fat was 23% and his cholesterol was around 220. Also, every doctor that he went to told him that he had harmed his liver quite a bit by eating that much fat and sugar, even advising him to end his experiment early, but he didn't.
It took him almost 6 months to lose all of the weight. Crazy.
So, I started to think about all of the unhealthy things I do, and it's really quite sobering.
Now, I genuinely don't eat fast food that often. Every once in a while, I might get breakfast from McDonald's, but that's about it. And that's the most positive thing I can say about my health regiment.
I drink diet soda like there's nothing else in the world to drink. I am addicted to Diet Vanilla Pepsi. I used to be addicted to Mountain Dew, so that's a slight improvement, but diet drinks, while they don't contain sugar, contain aspartame, which has been linked to cancer. So, it's a question of preferring to be fat or preferring to increase your risk of cancer. Lovely choice.
As aforementioned, I smoke roughly a pack of cigarettes a day. I can't even begin to list all the adverse effects smoking has on a person. I have been smoking now for 12 years. That is crazy. I'm giving serious thought to quitting, as I am tired of being out of breath all the time and really tired of smelling like smoke. We'll see how that goes.
Now, I don't drink alcohol super often, maybe once or twice a week, but when I do, I drink too much at once. I suspect the reason my stomach seems to have regained part of its pre-Pennsylvania girth is that oh-so-tasty Pennsylvania treat, Yuengling lager. I truly love this beer, and it's starting to be a problem. Not a 12-step problem, but a "When's the baby due"? problem, and that's not good.
Let's see..I also either get way too much sleep or not enough, which has been linked to a number of health problems, and I never exercise. Oh, and I eat frozen food way too often to be considered a healthy eater.
So, I've clearly got some work cut out for myself.
Step one is to start going to the gym and eating better. I'm starting to eat a little better, but I really need to make an effort in that area, and I have GOT to go to the gym. Besides the stomach issue, I've had these jiggly areas under my arms for longer than I care to say, and you know what, I don't like 'em. I want Linda Hamilton in "Terminator 2" arms..not really, I think that would scare me, but you get the picture.
So, when I drag my lazy ass to the gym and maybe cut the I.V. of Diet Vanilla Pepsi, I'll be sure to let everyone know how the exercise and healthy living is treating me. Well, I'm probably a little ahead of myself. First, let's get through the beginnings of the exercise, and then we'll go from there.
Beefcake!!
Friday, April 15, 2005
Are you tough enough?
I originally wrote this as a column about a year ago. I'm sick and don't feel like writing today..enjoy.
I like to think of myself as a little country girl from Macon. Rather, that’s what everyone else likes to think of me as, and I generally cringe when reminded of the tiny 2,000 population town in which I grew up.
However, I recognize that I didn’t exactly grow up in the throes of a cosmopolitan area, and I am slowly accepting to embrace my past rather than deny it.
However, mud-riding and creek-swimming as a child and teenager aside, there are certain things even this “country girl” isn’t prepared for – a Toughman Contest, for instance.
In case you don’t know what a Toughman Contest is, I will be happy to fill you in. Apparently, there is a national Toughman Contest in which the regional winners throughout the country compete. So, each state holds a series of local Toughman Contests, and the winners from these take their illustrious spots nationally.
I had the privilege (?) to attend one of the regional contests in Meridian recently, and I have never witnessed a more surreal experience. Roughly 10 grown men entered and after receiving a required physical from the eminent Toughman-sanctioned doctor, off they went to pair off in order to beat the tar out of each other while being cheered on by a beer-fueled crowd.
Several things struck me about this event, in no particular order – The men who had registered early walked around, shirts off (a mistake in some cases) chests puffed out, listening to music ( I like to imagine it was Helen Reddy’s “I Am Woman,” but I’m sure I’m mistaken) and giving withering looks to anyone who might challenge their manliness. A male thing, I guess, I really wouldn’t presume to know.
Secondly, there were small children at this thing. In one instance, I’m talking about near-newborns asleep on the chests of their fathers, who I feel sure probably could’ve stayed at home with a babysitter or a sane parent, but as a childless “singleton,” I suppose I have no say in such matters.
Finally, there were the “Ring Girls.” Now, I realize with the machismo of this event, I shouldn’t have been surprised by semi-scantily clad women proclaiming the beginning of each fresh round of torment for the loser, but these girls looked to be about 17 years old and were subject to the lasciviousness of men twice and three times their age, catcalling and hooting as though Pamela Anderson Lee was strutting across the stage. I found it a little sad, both for the catcallers and the “Ring Girls.”
In conclusion, I saw men who I assume have other, daytime jobs that don’t require them to beat down a co-worker do their best to at least leave them walking funny, and I admit it, by the end, I was cheering as well, caught up in all the testosterone and madness of it all. I guess it’s true; you can take the girl out of Macon, but you can’t take the Macon out of the girl.
I like to think of myself as a little country girl from Macon. Rather, that’s what everyone else likes to think of me as, and I generally cringe when reminded of the tiny 2,000 population town in which I grew up.
However, I recognize that I didn’t exactly grow up in the throes of a cosmopolitan area, and I am slowly accepting to embrace my past rather than deny it.
However, mud-riding and creek-swimming as a child and teenager aside, there are certain things even this “country girl” isn’t prepared for – a Toughman Contest, for instance.
In case you don’t know what a Toughman Contest is, I will be happy to fill you in. Apparently, there is a national Toughman Contest in which the regional winners throughout the country compete. So, each state holds a series of local Toughman Contests, and the winners from these take their illustrious spots nationally.
I had the privilege (?) to attend one of the regional contests in Meridian recently, and I have never witnessed a more surreal experience. Roughly 10 grown men entered and after receiving a required physical from the eminent Toughman-sanctioned doctor, off they went to pair off in order to beat the tar out of each other while being cheered on by a beer-fueled crowd.
Several things struck me about this event, in no particular order – The men who had registered early walked around, shirts off (a mistake in some cases) chests puffed out, listening to music ( I like to imagine it was Helen Reddy’s “I Am Woman,” but I’m sure I’m mistaken) and giving withering looks to anyone who might challenge their manliness. A male thing, I guess, I really wouldn’t presume to know.
Secondly, there were small children at this thing. In one instance, I’m talking about near-newborns asleep on the chests of their fathers, who I feel sure probably could’ve stayed at home with a babysitter or a sane parent, but as a childless “singleton,” I suppose I have no say in such matters.
Finally, there were the “Ring Girls.” Now, I realize with the machismo of this event, I shouldn’t have been surprised by semi-scantily clad women proclaiming the beginning of each fresh round of torment for the loser, but these girls looked to be about 17 years old and were subject to the lasciviousness of men twice and three times their age, catcalling and hooting as though Pamela Anderson Lee was strutting across the stage. I found it a little sad, both for the catcallers and the “Ring Girls.”
In conclusion, I saw men who I assume have other, daytime jobs that don’t require them to beat down a co-worker do their best to at least leave them walking funny, and I admit it, by the end, I was cheering as well, caught up in all the testosterone and madness of it all. I guess it’s true; you can take the girl out of Macon, but you can’t take the Macon out of the girl.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Road warriors and good times
Nothing quite creates a feeling of camaraderie like a good road trip. It's typically something you do in college, but there's nothing to say you can't pick up and go anywhere with close friends well into your 40s. I certainly hope to still be doing that, maybe as an homage to "Thelma and Louise," excepting that whole over the cliff part at the end, oh, and committing murder. But, you get my point.
To date, my favorite road trip partner is by far one Amanda Meadows. She and I have been to New Orleans twice, Memphis at least twice, one of those trips spanning Memphis, Nashville and Lynchburg (to tour the Jack Daniels distillery) as well as a brief sojourn in Bucksnort, Tenn., and briefly touring the Ave Maria Grotto in Cullman, Ala.
We actually went about an hour out of our way to stop in Bucksnort because when you're looking at a map, a name like that kinda jumps out and begs to be seen. What Bucksnort actually consisted of, was a sign and a couple of gravel roads, but we have pictures, and I have a commemorative rubber keychain, so it was totally worth it.
And the reason the Ave Maria Grotto tour was so brief, was that we arrived about 10 min. before they closed and had to do some fast talking to even be let in. Then, Amanda proceeded to curse over something, and we had a spasm of laughter over my telling her, "I don't think profanity is allowed in the grotto." We still laugh about that.
And, oh, was there singing on these road trips..and flashing..on the way to New Orleans. Not to out anyone, but it wasn't me doing the flashing..
The singing, which I clearly take too seriously, had maybe hit a new silly high/low (?) when Elton John's "Candle in the Wind" came on the radio, and I cleared my throat in order to sing it properly without even realizing it, and Amanda ridiculed me for the rest of the trip.
Perhaps the greatest purchases from the Tennessee trip, other than the Taking Care of Business sunglasses she bought at the Graceland gift shop were two lighters we bought at this hole-in-the-wall gas station.
Amanda's was a small, metallic leg (awesome), but mine was truly the best. It was a white, headless woman wearing a polka-dot bikini. When you depressed the button to light it, her nipples and crotch started blinking. I named her Tammy, and when the part of her leg that made her blink fell off, it was a really sad day for me. I still can't really talk about it without getting misty.
She was quite popular when I returned to Mississippi, dancing on the table to karaoke, she made the rounds in the bar until I had to retrieve her for fear someone would run away with her. But, I digress..
There was another trip to Memphis with Amanda and me, where we were driving through Oxford, Miss., and I swear to God, we saw a road sign that said "Cats crossing" with little pictures of cats crossing the road.
Yet another trip, just to Oxford, was to visit another friend who was staying with some fraternity brothers. I think it was Homecoming weekend at the University of Mississippi. There was this awesome '80s band playing, and they started to play Rick Springfield's "Jesse's Girl," which may be the greatest song ever created.
With a little help from my friend alcohol and a little too much excitement directed toward the beginning strains of "Jesse is a friend...I know he's been a good friend of mine..," I slid down a muddy hill in front of about 200 people, and the sad part is, I didn't even care. I jumped up, covered in filth, and kept right on singing, while Amanda convulsed in laughter with my other friends who had witnessed this display.
And then, there was the shopping cart incident. Amanda, you knew I had to bring it up. Okay, we're in New Orleans at this awesome bar called Madigan's, I think, at our first Mardi Gras. We are having so much fun, it shouldn't even be legal, and we go outside to get some fresh air.
There just happens to be a grocery store across the street, replete with shopping carts. Well, in our infinite wisdom, Amanda says, "Let me push you! Get in!" Um..yeah, she pushed the shopping cart faster than it was ever meant to go, hit a pothole and I literally flew out, drink in hand and flying everywhere along with me, and landed on my ass. OY
People came out of nowhere.."Are you okay? That looked horrible. Let us buy you a drink.." So, all in all, not a terrible thing..although I had a bruise the size of Brazil on my ass the next day and a little trouble walking.
And, yes, I did end up getting her back in a very public way, but since it's not about a road trip, it's not relevant here..heheh.
Anyway, as long as Journey and Hall and Oates are played on the radio, Amanda and I will have the best road trips ever.
*sigh* Good times.
Love you, bubeleh.
To date, my favorite road trip partner is by far one Amanda Meadows. She and I have been to New Orleans twice, Memphis at least twice, one of those trips spanning Memphis, Nashville and Lynchburg (to tour the Jack Daniels distillery) as well as a brief sojourn in Bucksnort, Tenn., and briefly touring the Ave Maria Grotto in Cullman, Ala.
We actually went about an hour out of our way to stop in Bucksnort because when you're looking at a map, a name like that kinda jumps out and begs to be seen. What Bucksnort actually consisted of, was a sign and a couple of gravel roads, but we have pictures, and I have a commemorative rubber keychain, so it was totally worth it.
And the reason the Ave Maria Grotto tour was so brief, was that we arrived about 10 min. before they closed and had to do some fast talking to even be let in. Then, Amanda proceeded to curse over something, and we had a spasm of laughter over my telling her, "I don't think profanity is allowed in the grotto." We still laugh about that.
And, oh, was there singing on these road trips..and flashing..on the way to New Orleans. Not to out anyone, but it wasn't me doing the flashing..
The singing, which I clearly take too seriously, had maybe hit a new silly high/low (?) when Elton John's "Candle in the Wind" came on the radio, and I cleared my throat in order to sing it properly without even realizing it, and Amanda ridiculed me for the rest of the trip.
Perhaps the greatest purchases from the Tennessee trip, other than the Taking Care of Business sunglasses she bought at the Graceland gift shop were two lighters we bought at this hole-in-the-wall gas station.
Amanda's was a small, metallic leg (awesome), but mine was truly the best. It was a white, headless woman wearing a polka-dot bikini. When you depressed the button to light it, her nipples and crotch started blinking. I named her Tammy, and when the part of her leg that made her blink fell off, it was a really sad day for me. I still can't really talk about it without getting misty.
She was quite popular when I returned to Mississippi, dancing on the table to karaoke, she made the rounds in the bar until I had to retrieve her for fear someone would run away with her. But, I digress..
There was another trip to Memphis with Amanda and me, where we were driving through Oxford, Miss., and I swear to God, we saw a road sign that said "Cats crossing" with little pictures of cats crossing the road.
Yet another trip, just to Oxford, was to visit another friend who was staying with some fraternity brothers. I think it was Homecoming weekend at the University of Mississippi. There was this awesome '80s band playing, and they started to play Rick Springfield's "Jesse's Girl," which may be the greatest song ever created.
With a little help from my friend alcohol and a little too much excitement directed toward the beginning strains of "Jesse is a friend...I know he's been a good friend of mine..," I slid down a muddy hill in front of about 200 people, and the sad part is, I didn't even care. I jumped up, covered in filth, and kept right on singing, while Amanda convulsed in laughter with my other friends who had witnessed this display.
And then, there was the shopping cart incident. Amanda, you knew I had to bring it up. Okay, we're in New Orleans at this awesome bar called Madigan's, I think, at our first Mardi Gras. We are having so much fun, it shouldn't even be legal, and we go outside to get some fresh air.
There just happens to be a grocery store across the street, replete with shopping carts. Well, in our infinite wisdom, Amanda says, "Let me push you! Get in!" Um..yeah, she pushed the shopping cart faster than it was ever meant to go, hit a pothole and I literally flew out, drink in hand and flying everywhere along with me, and landed on my ass. OY
People came out of nowhere.."Are you okay? That looked horrible. Let us buy you a drink.." So, all in all, not a terrible thing..although I had a bruise the size of Brazil on my ass the next day and a little trouble walking.
And, yes, I did end up getting her back in a very public way, but since it's not about a road trip, it's not relevant here..heheh.
Anyway, as long as Journey and Hall and Oates are played on the radio, Amanda and I will have the best road trips ever.
*sigh* Good times.
Love you, bubeleh.
Monday, April 11, 2005
Seriously..
What is wrong with Ann Coulter's body? I dislike her independently of her freakishly thin body frame and bizarre long face, but, seriously, has anybody looked at her really closely?
They did this bit on Saturday Night Live over the weekend where Drew Barrymore portrayed her on this talk show, and they kept asking, "Seriously, what's wrong with your face"?
Thank God someone else finally put their finger on it. It's just that for her to be touted as the "sexy" conservative, that must mean there's not a hell of a lot for them to choose from these days because she looks like one of those biology skeletons wearing some skin and a blonde wig.
Sorry, Annie, but if you're going to say you hate liberals and act like a general stupid bitch in the name of selling books, I have no problem pointing out your obvious deficiencies in life as well.
They did this bit on Saturday Night Live over the weekend where Drew Barrymore portrayed her on this talk show, and they kept asking, "Seriously, what's wrong with your face"?
Thank God someone else finally put their finger on it. It's just that for her to be touted as the "sexy" conservative, that must mean there's not a hell of a lot for them to choose from these days because she looks like one of those biology skeletons wearing some skin and a blonde wig.
Sorry, Annie, but if you're going to say you hate liberals and act like a general stupid bitch in the name of selling books, I have no problem pointing out your obvious deficiencies in life as well.
Things that annoy me
Yes, it's true this post might not have some of the positivity of previous posts, but it's Monday, I left my apartment without drying my hair this morning, and I've had a headache since yesterday, so if you want to be uplifted, you should probably skip the blog today.
While most of the time I have decided to focus on what's good in the world, let's face it. I'm a pretty impatient person who is easily annoyed. I used to think that it was a terrible way to be, that I should try not to let little things get to me, etc..., and I don't react to them as badly as I used to, but I simply cannot help my high levels of annoyance.
There's really no explanation for it, other than for the most part, I come from a long line of grumpy people.
So, here we go..
1. Morning radio shows. I don't think there's anything more irritating in the morning than a group of two or three people on radio stations who have been chosen for some inexplicable reason by that station to greet morning commuters and give their oh, so intelligent and informed opinions on the day's events.
They are pretty much all people who have "faces made for radio," and somehow this little vocation that requires little to no skill has afforded them the idea that they are really, really cool. I think radio stations should just, I dunno, play music..what a novel idea.
2. Working in an office. I realize this is one of those annoyances I'm going to have to get over or just accept, and basically, I have, but I hate all of the little "Office Space"-isms of working in a place that has cubicles. My current supervisor at this temp job absolutely REFUSES to answer any calls transferred to her.
I know that people think I'm a huge liar everytime I have to say, "Oh, she's on the phone, or she's out of the office, would you like to leave her a voicemail?" Not only does she refuse to answer her phone, she refuses to meet with anyone who comes into the office for any reason. The security company wants to touch base? No, she's too busy, etc...
Which makes me wonder, what in God's name is she doing? She pawns off virtually all the work she can onto me, she's not answering calls, so what exactly is there to be so busy about?
Oh, yeah, I hate female superiors..sue me, Gloria Steinem. You work for a bitchy woman in her 40s or 50s, then get back to me about how great women are.
3. Money. I hate what it does to people, because, clearly, you can't live without it. I hate the fact that I'm terrified about potentially not having a job, obviously most principally because of money. I just signed a year lease, and I'm in no position to live a life of leisure. And I want to smack people who can and do completely squander large amounts of money while having no comprehension about how real people live.
I worked for a man, who was a millionaire, perhaps billionaire, but I doubt it. Anyway, this man had never had a real job that wasn't part of his "legacy" a day in his life, never wanted for anything, and he paid his employees so small a salary that most people had second jobs, and these were people with college degrees.
He refused to give cost of living raises, saying that they weren't necessary. Well, to someone who has no idea what the cost of living actually is, that makes perfect sense, I suppose.
I wish we could go back to a bartering system and then really see who's useful to society and who's not.
4. In no particular order: The price of gas, people who talk too loudly or too softly, gaining weight, religious television channels, being lonely, men who are sleazy, people who say "dude" way too much, people in politics who lie, poorly written books that are on bestseller lists, PARIS friggin' HILTON, being lied to, people who have not the slightest sense of irony or sarcasm, the Michael Jackson trial, insecurity, and metrosexuals.
While most of the time I have decided to focus on what's good in the world, let's face it. I'm a pretty impatient person who is easily annoyed. I used to think that it was a terrible way to be, that I should try not to let little things get to me, etc..., and I don't react to them as badly as I used to, but I simply cannot help my high levels of annoyance.
There's really no explanation for it, other than for the most part, I come from a long line of grumpy people.
So, here we go..
1. Morning radio shows. I don't think there's anything more irritating in the morning than a group of two or three people on radio stations who have been chosen for some inexplicable reason by that station to greet morning commuters and give their oh, so intelligent and informed opinions on the day's events.
They are pretty much all people who have "faces made for radio," and somehow this little vocation that requires little to no skill has afforded them the idea that they are really, really cool. I think radio stations should just, I dunno, play music..what a novel idea.
2. Working in an office. I realize this is one of those annoyances I'm going to have to get over or just accept, and basically, I have, but I hate all of the little "Office Space"-isms of working in a place that has cubicles. My current supervisor at this temp job absolutely REFUSES to answer any calls transferred to her.
I know that people think I'm a huge liar everytime I have to say, "Oh, she's on the phone, or she's out of the office, would you like to leave her a voicemail?" Not only does she refuse to answer her phone, she refuses to meet with anyone who comes into the office for any reason. The security company wants to touch base? No, she's too busy, etc...
Which makes me wonder, what in God's name is she doing? She pawns off virtually all the work she can onto me, she's not answering calls, so what exactly is there to be so busy about?
Oh, yeah, I hate female superiors..sue me, Gloria Steinem. You work for a bitchy woman in her 40s or 50s, then get back to me about how great women are.
3. Money. I hate what it does to people, because, clearly, you can't live without it. I hate the fact that I'm terrified about potentially not having a job, obviously most principally because of money. I just signed a year lease, and I'm in no position to live a life of leisure. And I want to smack people who can and do completely squander large amounts of money while having no comprehension about how real people live.
I worked for a man, who was a millionaire, perhaps billionaire, but I doubt it. Anyway, this man had never had a real job that wasn't part of his "legacy" a day in his life, never wanted for anything, and he paid his employees so small a salary that most people had second jobs, and these were people with college degrees.
He refused to give cost of living raises, saying that they weren't necessary. Well, to someone who has no idea what the cost of living actually is, that makes perfect sense, I suppose.
I wish we could go back to a bartering system and then really see who's useful to society and who's not.
4. In no particular order: The price of gas, people who talk too loudly or too softly, gaining weight, religious television channels, being lonely, men who are sleazy, people who say "dude" way too much, people in politics who lie, poorly written books that are on bestseller lists, PARIS friggin' HILTON, being lied to, people who have not the slightest sense of irony or sarcasm, the Michael Jackson trial, insecurity, and metrosexuals.
Friday, April 08, 2005
Janie's got a gun
I hate traffic. Traffic and getting anywhere since moving to an actual city have now become the collective banes of my existence. I work roughly 11 miles away from where I live, and it takes me between 45 and 55 minutes to get to work.
I seriously don't know how there aren't more instances of road rage or, frankly, people just abandoning their cars and running away screaming into the woods, because that's frequently what I want to do.
I understand that it's a big city and there's going to be traffic, but often, for no reason at all, the traffic will just cease to move for like 20 minutes, and you think to yourself, "Oh, there must be an accident," and when it starts back up, no, there was no car on fire, no woman giving birth, people just stopped, and then it makes you want to, again, run into the woods and perhaps live a life among the trees and wood nymphs.
There are some days when the commute home doesn't bother me as much, because it kind of serves as an unwinding, where I can blast the radio and decompress before getting to my apartment, but those days are mostly few and far between.
Mostly, I alternate between putting a death grip on the steering wheel and talking to myself about what idiots other drivers are. It can't be healthy behavior. Perhaps I should get a meditation tape or something to listen to on the way home to undercut the bubbling, psychotic feeling that wells inside me more frequently lately.
And my commute, by Philadelphia standards, is not even that far. Some people commute up to 40 miles, and it makes me tired to even think about how long that takes them daily.
And it's entirely possible that I will be one of those "long commuters" sometime soon should the career gods ever smile on me and actually grant me a decent job, and I guess I will do what everyone else does and get used to it, although I don't imagine my ever really being used to being confined in my car for such a long period of time while people simultaneously whiz past me and plod along in front of me.
I thought about it the other day, and it really is just crazy. I mean, what are you gonna do? You have to go where a job is, and clearly, you have to get home, so you're just stuck in this insanity, and there's nothing you can do about it.
After my brief relationship with legions of cars, I now fully understand Michael Douglas' character in "Falling Down," who just abandoned his car and went on a crazy all-day shooting spree with people that annoyed him.
I'm also really thankful that I don't have a gun, because I would fear for the driver of the car who takes up two lanes with his left blinker on and inevitably decides to turn right after holding up traffic for a full five minutes.
I seriously don't know how there aren't more instances of road rage or, frankly, people just abandoning their cars and running away screaming into the woods, because that's frequently what I want to do.
I understand that it's a big city and there's going to be traffic, but often, for no reason at all, the traffic will just cease to move for like 20 minutes, and you think to yourself, "Oh, there must be an accident," and when it starts back up, no, there was no car on fire, no woman giving birth, people just stopped, and then it makes you want to, again, run into the woods and perhaps live a life among the trees and wood nymphs.
There are some days when the commute home doesn't bother me as much, because it kind of serves as an unwinding, where I can blast the radio and decompress before getting to my apartment, but those days are mostly few and far between.
Mostly, I alternate between putting a death grip on the steering wheel and talking to myself about what idiots other drivers are. It can't be healthy behavior. Perhaps I should get a meditation tape or something to listen to on the way home to undercut the bubbling, psychotic feeling that wells inside me more frequently lately.
And my commute, by Philadelphia standards, is not even that far. Some people commute up to 40 miles, and it makes me tired to even think about how long that takes them daily.
And it's entirely possible that I will be one of those "long commuters" sometime soon should the career gods ever smile on me and actually grant me a decent job, and I guess I will do what everyone else does and get used to it, although I don't imagine my ever really being used to being confined in my car for such a long period of time while people simultaneously whiz past me and plod along in front of me.
I thought about it the other day, and it really is just crazy. I mean, what are you gonna do? You have to go where a job is, and clearly, you have to get home, so you're just stuck in this insanity, and there's nothing you can do about it.
After my brief relationship with legions of cars, I now fully understand Michael Douglas' character in "Falling Down," who just abandoned his car and went on a crazy all-day shooting spree with people that annoyed him.
I'm also really thankful that I don't have a gun, because I would fear for the driver of the car who takes up two lanes with his left blinker on and inevitably decides to turn right after holding up traffic for a full five minutes.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Oh, if only it were true
I love "The West Wing." I owe that love all to my friend Simon, and he would point that out if I didn't, but man, do I love that show.
Granted, the past couple of seasons haven't been as good as the first three were, but it's still by far one of the best shows to ever be on television.
But, it's also very tough for a person disillusioned with real-life politics to watch.
The premise of the show, for those who are not fans, is that Martin Sheen is the President, a Democratic president (yay) who is this amazing politician that everyone loves, even when he does things that they don't necessarily agree with.
When he began running for his second term, he had to disclose that he had Multiple Sclerosis, and had had it since before his first term. Yet, he still got re-elected, because, darn it, people just liked him too much.
This is partially what I mean about it not being terribly realistic.
His staff, which really make the show, are comprised of ultra-liberal, ambitious people who follow Bartlet (Sheen) without question, or generally, without question.
The brilliance of the first three seasons of the show lied within the cast and Aaron Sorkin's writing and creation of characters. They had this very fast-paced, witty repartee in the White House, and if you were anyone who was ever interested in politics, you thought, "That's cool. I could totally work in the White House and exchange glib wit with fellow co-workers."
I won't lie. Just like I was spurred on to consider law school after watching "A Few Good Men" repeatedly, the idea of working in an environment like that of "The West Wing" seemed very desirable to me. What can I say? I'm a product of pop culture.
Anyway, the episode last night was especially good and especially implausible, but made me cry out of awe or appreciation nonetheless. The season finale centered around the Democratic National Convention and how the party had to find a nominee before the end. Now, I have no idea, because I'm historically challenged, if such a thing has ever happened, that going into a convention, the party wouldn't have a nominee, but that's what was going on.
The choices were Congressman Matt Santos (Jimmy Smits), Vice President "Bingo" Bob Russell (Gary Cole), and Ed O'Neill from "Married with Children" fame. His character's name was Baker.
Now, at any given point during the episode, it looked as though the delegates would go with any of the candidates. Each had his strong points, and each had particular parts of the country loyal to them.
Right when it appeared that the milquetoast Russell that couldn't possibly defeat the Republican challenger was going to win, and Santos would step out, Jimmy Smits delivered this utterly kick-ass speech at the convention about how it wasn't up to him to step back and take away that choice from the delegates, and that's when I started to cry.
Of course, he ended up with the nomination and chose Leo, a Bartlet staffer, as his VP, which made it all the better, but the reason I was crying was this: I am a Democrat. Whether I am irritated with the party right now, there is no viable alternative for me. I will likely never be a Republican; I just don't believe in what they believe, and while some people don't pin too much importance on their political affiliations, I do, and it's intrinsic to my personality.
I still agree with Democratic beliefs as a whole, but when I was watching "The West Wing," and yes, I know it's a fictional program, I thought, there is no one in the party right now that I would throw my support behind blindly or who could move such a group of people through his ideas and speeches.
"The West Wing" takes the things that I believe in and makes them possible in this fictional universe, and the idealistic part of me wonders why that can't happen in real life. Why can't the Democrats get their heads out of their asses and unify based on the principles that made them great in the first place?
We're not so far gone that it's impossible, but it's going to take a substantial amount of work, and I hope that the party can do it and do it soon, because the longer they flounder about and scramble to become cohesive, the less likely people are going to be able to identify with them again.
And, for the record, working for the Kerry campaign was nothing like being on "The West Wing."
Granted, the past couple of seasons haven't been as good as the first three were, but it's still by far one of the best shows to ever be on television.
But, it's also very tough for a person disillusioned with real-life politics to watch.
The premise of the show, for those who are not fans, is that Martin Sheen is the President, a Democratic president (yay) who is this amazing politician that everyone loves, even when he does things that they don't necessarily agree with.
When he began running for his second term, he had to disclose that he had Multiple Sclerosis, and had had it since before his first term. Yet, he still got re-elected, because, darn it, people just liked him too much.
This is partially what I mean about it not being terribly realistic.
His staff, which really make the show, are comprised of ultra-liberal, ambitious people who follow Bartlet (Sheen) without question, or generally, without question.
The brilliance of the first three seasons of the show lied within the cast and Aaron Sorkin's writing and creation of characters. They had this very fast-paced, witty repartee in the White House, and if you were anyone who was ever interested in politics, you thought, "That's cool. I could totally work in the White House and exchange glib wit with fellow co-workers."
I won't lie. Just like I was spurred on to consider law school after watching "A Few Good Men" repeatedly, the idea of working in an environment like that of "The West Wing" seemed very desirable to me. What can I say? I'm a product of pop culture.
Anyway, the episode last night was especially good and especially implausible, but made me cry out of awe or appreciation nonetheless. The season finale centered around the Democratic National Convention and how the party had to find a nominee before the end. Now, I have no idea, because I'm historically challenged, if such a thing has ever happened, that going into a convention, the party wouldn't have a nominee, but that's what was going on.
The choices were Congressman Matt Santos (Jimmy Smits), Vice President "Bingo" Bob Russell (Gary Cole), and Ed O'Neill from "Married with Children" fame. His character's name was Baker.
Now, at any given point during the episode, it looked as though the delegates would go with any of the candidates. Each had his strong points, and each had particular parts of the country loyal to them.
Right when it appeared that the milquetoast Russell that couldn't possibly defeat the Republican challenger was going to win, and Santos would step out, Jimmy Smits delivered this utterly kick-ass speech at the convention about how it wasn't up to him to step back and take away that choice from the delegates, and that's when I started to cry.
Of course, he ended up with the nomination and chose Leo, a Bartlet staffer, as his VP, which made it all the better, but the reason I was crying was this: I am a Democrat. Whether I am irritated with the party right now, there is no viable alternative for me. I will likely never be a Republican; I just don't believe in what they believe, and while some people don't pin too much importance on their political affiliations, I do, and it's intrinsic to my personality.
I still agree with Democratic beliefs as a whole, but when I was watching "The West Wing," and yes, I know it's a fictional program, I thought, there is no one in the party right now that I would throw my support behind blindly or who could move such a group of people through his ideas and speeches.
"The West Wing" takes the things that I believe in and makes them possible in this fictional universe, and the idealistic part of me wonders why that can't happen in real life. Why can't the Democrats get their heads out of their asses and unify based on the principles that made them great in the first place?
We're not so far gone that it's impossible, but it's going to take a substantial amount of work, and I hope that the party can do it and do it soon, because the longer they flounder about and scramble to become cohesive, the less likely people are going to be able to identify with them again.
And, for the record, working for the Kerry campaign was nothing like being on "The West Wing."
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Always look on the bright side of life
Because I am not in the greatest mood due to a number of stressful things going on in my life at the moment, I am choosing not to embrace the despair, as would be what I would've done in the past.
To "damn the torpedoes" as it were, I thought I would instead choose to focus on things that inspire me and make me happy and have that be my new method of dealing with stress rather than retreating under the covers and waiting for the storm to pass.
So, the way I figure it is that everyone makes their own happiness in life. Of course there are outside factors that contribute to this, but when it comes down to it, there is no other person or thing responsible for your own happiness but you. And I am finally at a point in my life where I "get" that. I am never going to make everyone happy all of the time, and I shouldn't have to. They have to make their happiness themselves, and it is not my responsibility.
So, on that note, I want to share a few things that keep me getting up everyday because there's hope and promise and wisdom and humor in the world.
1. Remember the "Wear Sunscreen" song that came out in the 90's? Everybody freaked out over this spoken word song, and it was probably the most used graduation song in the history of the world. You know why? Cos' it's a pretty friggin' cool song. Some of my favorite lyrics: "Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements."
"Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don't."
It's all about what you choose to find important to worry about. We're all going to worry no matter what, and God knows I'm going to worry no matter what, but you/I have to temper it with what you can change and what you can't.
2. Frank Sinatra's "My Way." Who else but the Chairman of the Board himself can truly claim to have lived the way that he sung? He didn't take shit from anybody and the whole misogynistic attitude he had aside, I think he kicked ass.
"I’ve loved, I’ve laughed and cried. I’ve had my fill; my share of losing. And now, as tears subside, I find it all so amusing. To think I did all that; And may I say - not in a shy way, No, oh no not me, I did it my way."
Hell, yeah. He sums it up pretty well. He didn't always come out on top, but he damn well did what he wanted to do, and he learned from it and has no regrets for living his life the way he chose to do. Nobody will ever again have the self-assured swagger of Frank Sinatra, but I'm gonna do the best I can to duplicate his attitude.
3. In no particular order, the movies "The Princess Bride," "Three Amigos," "Student Bodies" and "Better Off Dead." Granted, there are more movies that I love, but these stand out as movies that I have spent countless hours quoting with friends when I could be in the worst mood in the world or even just a so-so mood, and with one "Hello, my name in Indigo Montoya, you kill my father, prepare to die," I am laughing so hard that I snort.
And while it may not be pretty, snorting during laughter is one of the most liberating things in the world. It means you're so happy that you don't even care that you are making an ass of yourself.
Frankly, every single word spoken in "Three Amigos" could send me into a fit of spastic laughter. It has been my favorite comedy since I was about 12, and I guess that saying about "Who you are at 3, you are at 30," rings pretty true in this case. The scene with the Singing Bush and Invisible Swordsman alone is enough to lift my mood just thinking about it, much less watching it. God bless Steve Martin.
4. Again, in no particular order, these are an assortment of random things that either inspire me or bring a smile to my face: My niece telling me she loves me, phone conversations with people that I care about that are neither productive nor necessary, but they do serve the purpose of making me feel good, The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, a well-written book where every sentence is so well put-together, you want to meet the author just to thank them, when, for no reason at all, the commute is 15 minutes shorter because of light traffic, spring, family holidays where everyone gets along, a fresh, blank journal, George Clooney, diet vanilla Pepsi, people that you sleep well with (I mean, sleep, too, get your minds out of the gutter), freshly picked flowers, a non-metered parking space in Philadelphia, skinny pants and skinny mirrors, karaoke, happy hour and crawfish.
So, that is the end of that, which is by no means all of my favorite inspirational things, but this could go on forever if I kept at it, so I'll save the rest for another day.
I hope that as well as shedding some much-needed optimism on my mood, I leave some of you feeling a little better.
Feel free to share things that inspire and motivate you or you can just quote "Better Off Dead" if you want.
To "damn the torpedoes" as it were, I thought I would instead choose to focus on things that inspire me and make me happy and have that be my new method of dealing with stress rather than retreating under the covers and waiting for the storm to pass.
So, the way I figure it is that everyone makes their own happiness in life. Of course there are outside factors that contribute to this, but when it comes down to it, there is no other person or thing responsible for your own happiness but you. And I am finally at a point in my life where I "get" that. I am never going to make everyone happy all of the time, and I shouldn't have to. They have to make their happiness themselves, and it is not my responsibility.
So, on that note, I want to share a few things that keep me getting up everyday because there's hope and promise and wisdom and humor in the world.
1. Remember the "Wear Sunscreen" song that came out in the 90's? Everybody freaked out over this spoken word song, and it was probably the most used graduation song in the history of the world. You know why? Cos' it's a pretty friggin' cool song. Some of my favorite lyrics: "Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements."
"Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don't."
It's all about what you choose to find important to worry about. We're all going to worry no matter what, and God knows I'm going to worry no matter what, but you/I have to temper it with what you can change and what you can't.
2. Frank Sinatra's "My Way." Who else but the Chairman of the Board himself can truly claim to have lived the way that he sung? He didn't take shit from anybody and the whole misogynistic attitude he had aside, I think he kicked ass.
"I’ve loved, I’ve laughed and cried. I’ve had my fill; my share of losing. And now, as tears subside, I find it all so amusing. To think I did all that; And may I say - not in a shy way, No, oh no not me, I did it my way."
Hell, yeah. He sums it up pretty well. He didn't always come out on top, but he damn well did what he wanted to do, and he learned from it and has no regrets for living his life the way he chose to do. Nobody will ever again have the self-assured swagger of Frank Sinatra, but I'm gonna do the best I can to duplicate his attitude.
3. In no particular order, the movies "The Princess Bride," "Three Amigos," "Student Bodies" and "Better Off Dead." Granted, there are more movies that I love, but these stand out as movies that I have spent countless hours quoting with friends when I could be in the worst mood in the world or even just a so-so mood, and with one "Hello, my name in Indigo Montoya, you kill my father, prepare to die," I am laughing so hard that I snort.
And while it may not be pretty, snorting during laughter is one of the most liberating things in the world. It means you're so happy that you don't even care that you are making an ass of yourself.
Frankly, every single word spoken in "Three Amigos" could send me into a fit of spastic laughter. It has been my favorite comedy since I was about 12, and I guess that saying about "Who you are at 3, you are at 30," rings pretty true in this case. The scene with the Singing Bush and Invisible Swordsman alone is enough to lift my mood just thinking about it, much less watching it. God bless Steve Martin.
4. Again, in no particular order, these are an assortment of random things that either inspire me or bring a smile to my face: My niece telling me she loves me, phone conversations with people that I care about that are neither productive nor necessary, but they do serve the purpose of making me feel good, The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, a well-written book where every sentence is so well put-together, you want to meet the author just to thank them, when, for no reason at all, the commute is 15 minutes shorter because of light traffic, spring, family holidays where everyone gets along, a fresh, blank journal, George Clooney, diet vanilla Pepsi, people that you sleep well with (I mean, sleep, too, get your minds out of the gutter), freshly picked flowers, a non-metered parking space in Philadelphia, skinny pants and skinny mirrors, karaoke, happy hour and crawfish.
So, that is the end of that, which is by no means all of my favorite inspirational things, but this could go on forever if I kept at it, so I'll save the rest for another day.
I hope that as well as shedding some much-needed optimism on my mood, I leave some of you feeling a little better.
Feel free to share things that inspire and motivate you or you can just quote "Better Off Dead" if you want.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Martha Stewart would be ashamed
I'm an unfit girl, y'know like an unfit parent that has their children taken away. If they could take away my breasts or something for being unfit, they probably should or they would if they could. Granted, I don't know who "they" are, but you get the point.
Okay, first of all, I really can't cook all that well. I mean, I can cook well enough to get by, and I have a few signature dishes that are not too bad, but my roommate, who actually does cook fancy stuff that intimidates me, has all of these kitchen accoutrements that confound and confuse me.
The kitchen kind of scares me sometimes. There are people who can enter anyone's kitchen, survey the utensils and ingredients and immediately conjure up a pretty decent meal. I've seen it happen. Meanwhile, I'm sitting at the counter, drinking wine or coffee, half-heartedly saying, "Can I help?" hoping to God they don't say "yes," because outside of chopping stuff, some culinary projects are beyond my comprehension.
The strange thing is, I don't eat out all that often, so what does that mean? It means I eat a ton of pasta, because I can actually boil water,(one burn incident aside) and I buy a ton of frozen food that has the nutritional equivalent of eating cardboard.
That is something that I am determined to change and perhaps living with someone who genuinely enjoys cooking will rub off on me in some small way.
The second reason I should have my ovary privileges revoked is that I am a total idiot about all things decorative. My wish is to be so rich that I can have someone decorate my living space, because if it were up to me, my apartment would have bare walls, and people would likely sit on boxes as furniture. There would be books as far as the eye could see, but in terms of decorating, that's really not a good thing.
I know what things I like, but in terms of having random crap (which I do) look good placed just so on a coffee table or hanging on the wall, etc..I'm completely clueless. Again, my roommate, who is a an artist, is pretty much wholly responsible for the decoration of our apartment, and thank God for that.
My one contribution is a Guatemalan rain stick that a drummer ex-boyfriend gave me in high school, and it has gone everywhere I've lived since then. Now, it has a Clinton/Gore button and a Kerry/Edwards sticker on it to kind of demonstrate its longevity, but, seriously, that's it for my decorating abilities. So sad.
And while cooking can be learned, I don't know that I'll ever have that intrinsic ability to know what looks good where and be at some random flea market and say "Wow, that monkey's toe would go excellently on the shelf next to the television."
I recognize that I have other talents, and while they're not always apparent to me, I know they're there. I can engage in witty repartee, write a good letter and make people feel comfortable. There are more, but those are the ones that leap to mind, at least that I can write when my mom might read this, so there you go.
Maybe I'll get to keep my girl privileges for the moment, but I don't think I'll be Martha Stewart's "Apprentice" anytime soon.
Okay, first of all, I really can't cook all that well. I mean, I can cook well enough to get by, and I have a few signature dishes that are not too bad, but my roommate, who actually does cook fancy stuff that intimidates me, has all of these kitchen accoutrements that confound and confuse me.
The kitchen kind of scares me sometimes. There are people who can enter anyone's kitchen, survey the utensils and ingredients and immediately conjure up a pretty decent meal. I've seen it happen. Meanwhile, I'm sitting at the counter, drinking wine or coffee, half-heartedly saying, "Can I help?" hoping to God they don't say "yes," because outside of chopping stuff, some culinary projects are beyond my comprehension.
The strange thing is, I don't eat out all that often, so what does that mean? It means I eat a ton of pasta, because I can actually boil water,(one burn incident aside) and I buy a ton of frozen food that has the nutritional equivalent of eating cardboard.
That is something that I am determined to change and perhaps living with someone who genuinely enjoys cooking will rub off on me in some small way.
The second reason I should have my ovary privileges revoked is that I am a total idiot about all things decorative. My wish is to be so rich that I can have someone decorate my living space, because if it were up to me, my apartment would have bare walls, and people would likely sit on boxes as furniture. There would be books as far as the eye could see, but in terms of decorating, that's really not a good thing.
I know what things I like, but in terms of having random crap (which I do) look good placed just so on a coffee table or hanging on the wall, etc..I'm completely clueless. Again, my roommate, who is a an artist, is pretty much wholly responsible for the decoration of our apartment, and thank God for that.
My one contribution is a Guatemalan rain stick that a drummer ex-boyfriend gave me in high school, and it has gone everywhere I've lived since then. Now, it has a Clinton/Gore button and a Kerry/Edwards sticker on it to kind of demonstrate its longevity, but, seriously, that's it for my decorating abilities. So sad.
And while cooking can be learned, I don't know that I'll ever have that intrinsic ability to know what looks good where and be at some random flea market and say "Wow, that monkey's toe would go excellently on the shelf next to the television."
I recognize that I have other talents, and while they're not always apparent to me, I know they're there. I can engage in witty repartee, write a good letter and make people feel comfortable. There are more, but those are the ones that leap to mind, at least that I can write when my mom might read this, so there you go.
Maybe I'll get to keep my girl privileges for the moment, but I don't think I'll be Martha Stewart's "Apprentice" anytime soon.
Monday, April 04, 2005
A woman without a vocation
I miss college. I miss the sheer ritual of going to class everyday, knowing that I'm learning something, no matter how useless that knowledge may be and looking forward to writing papers. (yea, I'm a dork, I know)
I miss the group discussions about communication theory and why the author chose that word for that particular poem and why historical context has as much to do with each piece of literature you read as anything else does.
In college, I kicked ass. I was the smart, insightful girl who wrote thought-provoking papers that professors sometimes used in class examples or spent half a page writing glowing comments about. I knew what to do there and what was expected for a favorable result and subsequent experience.
Post-college, things have not been what I would call easy for me in the realm of intellectual fulfillment.
Perhaps because although I went into journalism, then communication theory, which encompassed all aspects of communication, I never really had a clear idea of what I wanted to do.
I originally majored in political science, planning to go to law school, but sort of lost my desire to do that mid-way through my sophomore year. Perhaps I should've stayed with political science, given my recent foray into politics and how much it affected me, but I just didn't want to at the time.
I decided that I wanted to write. I had always enjoyed writing, had written short stories on my parents' typewriter from the time I was about 7, and when I really though about it, writing was the only thing that ever made me happy, so I changed my major.
For some reason, though, rather than focusing on creative writing or English, I chose to focus on journalism. I think I liked the glamour it conjured for me, which, after working for a newspaper for almost four years, is almost laughable to me now. I imagined dashing about like Katharine Hepburn in a trenchcoat and reporting to someone like Humphrey Bogart who would say, "Did you get the story, doll face?"
That is, quite clearly, not what happened. I ended up as a copy editor at a newspaper that's very foundation is hypocrisy and mediocrity, and I stayed there for far too long while letting whatever love I had once had for journalism ebb out of me like the slow leak in a tire.
So, here I am. I don't know what to do. I've applied for everything from PR at both the Catholic Diocese and the Jewish Family Services Organization (I'm an equal opportunity desperate job-seeker), to a copy writer at QVC, the shopping network. To demonstrate my patheti-sadness (oh, it's a word), I wasn't even contacted to interview for the first two, and I was deemed "not worthy" for one reason or another to write about decorative, yet affordable porcelain dalmations for QVC.
It's a cold job market, or I'm completely incapable of getting a job that I like that pays me above the poverty line. Let me believe the former for right now because the latter is just too depressing for words.
But I soldier on with what appears to be a useless college degree and gross deficiency of useful work experience and genuinely hope that I don't have to install a phone line in order to make extra money as a psychic or phone sex operator.
I miss the group discussions about communication theory and why the author chose that word for that particular poem and why historical context has as much to do with each piece of literature you read as anything else does.
In college, I kicked ass. I was the smart, insightful girl who wrote thought-provoking papers that professors sometimes used in class examples or spent half a page writing glowing comments about. I knew what to do there and what was expected for a favorable result and subsequent experience.
Post-college, things have not been what I would call easy for me in the realm of intellectual fulfillment.
Perhaps because although I went into journalism, then communication theory, which encompassed all aspects of communication, I never really had a clear idea of what I wanted to do.
I originally majored in political science, planning to go to law school, but sort of lost my desire to do that mid-way through my sophomore year. Perhaps I should've stayed with political science, given my recent foray into politics and how much it affected me, but I just didn't want to at the time.
I decided that I wanted to write. I had always enjoyed writing, had written short stories on my parents' typewriter from the time I was about 7, and when I really though about it, writing was the only thing that ever made me happy, so I changed my major.
For some reason, though, rather than focusing on creative writing or English, I chose to focus on journalism. I think I liked the glamour it conjured for me, which, after working for a newspaper for almost four years, is almost laughable to me now. I imagined dashing about like Katharine Hepburn in a trenchcoat and reporting to someone like Humphrey Bogart who would say, "Did you get the story, doll face?"
That is, quite clearly, not what happened. I ended up as a copy editor at a newspaper that's very foundation is hypocrisy and mediocrity, and I stayed there for far too long while letting whatever love I had once had for journalism ebb out of me like the slow leak in a tire.
So, here I am. I don't know what to do. I've applied for everything from PR at both the Catholic Diocese and the Jewish Family Services Organization (I'm an equal opportunity desperate job-seeker), to a copy writer at QVC, the shopping network. To demonstrate my patheti-sadness (oh, it's a word), I wasn't even contacted to interview for the first two, and I was deemed "not worthy" for one reason or another to write about decorative, yet affordable porcelain dalmations for QVC.
It's a cold job market, or I'm completely incapable of getting a job that I like that pays me above the poverty line. Let me believe the former for right now because the latter is just too depressing for words.
But I soldier on with what appears to be a useless college degree and gross deficiency of useful work experience and genuinely hope that I don't have to install a phone line in order to make extra money as a psychic or phone sex operator.
Friday, April 01, 2005
Optimistic beginnings
Well, now that I am fully moved into my new apartment in an awesome new neighborhood, I can set about the business of feeling like I'm finally at home.
For the past nine months, since I moved to Philadelphia, my life has been a series of transitions.
First, I moved almost 1,000 miles away from home, knowing no one once I reached my destination. Secondly, I started a job that was nothing like anything I've ever done before. And thirdly, I was living in a room in a house with people more than twice my age that was strange beyond explanation.
Within the span of three months, my job ended, so I had to find a new job and adjust to that and within another four months, it became painfully clear that I needed to find a new apartment.
The job search is still a little transitional because I'm doing temp work that degrades me on a daily basis, but I do have two very promising prospects, so with any luck, that will be resolved within the month. So, now what?
I am actually in a pretty amazing space in my life at the moment. I feel like I've finally begun what I wanted to do when I left my life in Mississippi. I wanted to feel like I was working toward something, establish myself in a new city and genuinely begin a life of which I could be proud.
I'm not there yet, but contrary to how hard I've been on myself for the last few months, I'm making pretty good strides.
I'm now looking forward to walking the funky cobblestone streets of Manayunk, familiarizing myself with my new neighborhood that has so much to offer for people in my stage in life.
I have this vision of myself meandering the streets with a cup of coffee in my hand, discovering and remembering why I chose to stay in this amazing city of Philadelphia after John Kerry failed to wrestle the presidency away from one George W. Bush.
In no more than two months' time, I want to know where a good place to work out is, where to buy a good bottle of wine and which part of the city catches the best view of the sunset.
As I was unpacking, I found a column that my grandfather had written about a variety of things, but most prominently, as was often the case, he had written about our county. He was one of those people who could convey his love and absolute appreciation for a place so eloquently that the reader felt like they were seeing what he saw.
It made me a little sad, thinking of how much I missed him, but it also made me happy remembering what a truly great person he was, and I made a vow to try to follow in his footsteps.
I've always wanted to follow his example and be someone that people could admire, but the way he inspired others is a tall order to fill, and I realized that all he would want me to do is be happy, and a person truly satisfied with themselves and their choices will, in turn, be an inspiration to those around them.
So, I'm going to live my life the best way I can and make myself happy and embrace each new challenge with a feeling of hope and the promise of things to come.
For the past nine months, since I moved to Philadelphia, my life has been a series of transitions.
First, I moved almost 1,000 miles away from home, knowing no one once I reached my destination. Secondly, I started a job that was nothing like anything I've ever done before. And thirdly, I was living in a room in a house with people more than twice my age that was strange beyond explanation.
Within the span of three months, my job ended, so I had to find a new job and adjust to that and within another four months, it became painfully clear that I needed to find a new apartment.
The job search is still a little transitional because I'm doing temp work that degrades me on a daily basis, but I do have two very promising prospects, so with any luck, that will be resolved within the month. So, now what?
I am actually in a pretty amazing space in my life at the moment. I feel like I've finally begun what I wanted to do when I left my life in Mississippi. I wanted to feel like I was working toward something, establish myself in a new city and genuinely begin a life of which I could be proud.
I'm not there yet, but contrary to how hard I've been on myself for the last few months, I'm making pretty good strides.
I'm now looking forward to walking the funky cobblestone streets of Manayunk, familiarizing myself with my new neighborhood that has so much to offer for people in my stage in life.
I have this vision of myself meandering the streets with a cup of coffee in my hand, discovering and remembering why I chose to stay in this amazing city of Philadelphia after John Kerry failed to wrestle the presidency away from one George W. Bush.
In no more than two months' time, I want to know where a good place to work out is, where to buy a good bottle of wine and which part of the city catches the best view of the sunset.
As I was unpacking, I found a column that my grandfather had written about a variety of things, but most prominently, as was often the case, he had written about our county. He was one of those people who could convey his love and absolute appreciation for a place so eloquently that the reader felt like they were seeing what he saw.
It made me a little sad, thinking of how much I missed him, but it also made me happy remembering what a truly great person he was, and I made a vow to try to follow in his footsteps.
I've always wanted to follow his example and be someone that people could admire, but the way he inspired others is a tall order to fill, and I realized that all he would want me to do is be happy, and a person truly satisfied with themselves and their choices will, in turn, be an inspiration to those around them.
So, I'm going to live my life the best way I can and make myself happy and embrace each new challenge with a feeling of hope and the promise of things to come.
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